Deliverance
by synthemesc
Summary: There was a reason this apprentice kept his secrets, and it wasn't companionship. He was like a new brand of demon, one that fed specifically on the darkness that preyed on the souls of templars. m!Surana, f!Amell, Jowan, later Zevran. AU Origin story.
1. Escape Artistry

**DELIVERANCE**

**Summary:** The origin of one m!Surana becomes something of an AU retelling of the entire Mage Origin story, still hopefully fitting pleasantly into canon. Dorian Surana, Sibyl Amell, and Jowan have been close friends since childhood, and each accept the other without question. But when Dorian's self-absorbed penchant for templar chasing gets out of hand, it sets in motion a devastating turn of events for the trio of friends, from which even he may not emerge unscathed.  
**Characters:** Male Surana Warden. AU female Amell. Cullen. Jowan. Lily. Semi-OC templar. Various other Circle Tower affiliates. Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne also each play their part.**  
Warnings: **Rated M for safety (language, allusions to rape/abuse of a minor character, and everyone's generally crappy mood). Major spoilers for the main game, and especially anything related to the Circle Tower, obviously. Oh, and if you don't like slash, this is your final heads up.  
**Disclaimer: **As always, Dragon Age isn't mine, I just love it a lot. Verses from the Chant were taken off the DAWiki.  
**A/N: **Maker's breath… this fic started off as simply my m!Surana in the pre-game origin, and sort of got out of hand from there; it overlaps with Questions some, but hopefully not too much.

So pretty much, my Warden got in my head, and so did this idea, and they wouldn't let me go… so I wrote the fic. Part of me keeps saying, "Psh, no one is interested in this!" But, since it's about 50-75% written anyway, there's no harm in posting, yes? Hopefully there are indeed redeemable qualities, in both Warden as well as fic. **Okay, I've babbled enough. Here we go…**

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**I. ESCAPE ARTISTRY**

_All things in this world are finite._

_What one man gains, another has lost._

**-Transfigurations 1:5**

**Lothering, 9:30 Dragon**

"Tower first," the new Grey Warden said, his tone almost cavalier, as if he didn't truly care. But the words had come too quickly for it to have been nothing more than an offhand suggestion.

They stopped at the edge of the crumbling bridge to look intently at the small village that stretched out before them, already teeming with refugees. The Warden had to admit it was a little bit amusing that the entire fate of Ferelden had been left in the hands of two mages and an ex-templar, not to mention the two most junior Grey Wardens in the entire country. Less amusing was that they actually did need to talk strategy—but really, with a group like theirs, where else could they go first but the Circle Tower?

The irony of rushing back there so soon after leaving did not escape him. Clearly, the Maker had a point He wanted to make here. Perhaps: _I don't like it when little mages get set free._

At some point in his musing, he realized that Lothering would be the first real, civilized village that he would ever visit—his first true impression of the Fereldan society to which he supposedly belonged—and shortly it would all be destroyed utterly by darkspawn.

Fate could certainly be fickle, to say the least.

"You know," Alistair began thoughtfully, standing to the Warden's left as they shared the view. "Redcliffe is on the way to the Circle Tower from here. I know the arl will believe us. He _has_ to."

"If this Loghain is your enemy, I say take _him_ out first and be done with him. Then you may gather your allies in peace," Morrigan cut in with the sneer that she seemed to reserve specifically for responding to Alistair. It wouldn't have bothered the Warden so much if Alistair had actually said anything over the long walk between the Korcari Wilds and Lothering besides "These bushes are thick," "So many people have died," and "Look, it's that mabari from the camp."

As it was, she was really being kind of a bitch. Alistair might have almost been a templar, but he was surprisingly tolerable, and even templars got upset when everyone they knew died all at once. Or at least the Warden considered his recent melancholy to be within the range of reasonable reactions for normal people, but perhaps it was different in the Wilds. As far as his own feelings went, he was just glad to be both outside the Tower and still _alive_.

Honestly, imminent darkspawn invasion felt like a minor obstacle in comparison to what he had overcome when Duncan had conscripted him, and it was probably time to properly gloat. By now, the Knight-Commander might have almost gotten over his timely departure, and that just wouldn't do.

And so, accordingly…

"Yes, Tower first," the Warden said again, his tone noticeably more upbeat than it had been previously, but it was as if he had hardly registered either of his companion's suggestions. He did give Alistair a sympathetic smile, though, before taking the first few steps into the village.

Alistair shrugged and followed without any protest, content that their plan of action had been chosen (just having one was the important thing, really), while Morrigan trailed after them both with a tiny snort of disapproval.

* * *

**Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:30 Dragon  
**_**Some months previously…**_

Jowan had been skulking around too much lately, but it seemed to be getting worse now that she had passed her Harrowing. He was always beginning sentences that never seemed to have an end, forming half-thoughts and speaking in cryptic, malformed, uneasy phrases like, "What would you do if I—" and "Sibyl, you've always been a friend and—"

Then he would stop, his mouth still partially open, and blush. And no matter how much coaxing Sibyl Amell tried, she could not get the end of those sentences out of him.

He was also in the Chantry a lot. Praying, she guessed, except Jowan wasn't the religious type and he really just seemed to be staring into space, his eyes vaguely focused on the brunette Chantry initiate who tended to the chapel and recited the Chant in the evenings.

He had even stopped talking about the mysterious girl he had fallen for—Lillian? Lila?—maybe that was it. Maybe they had broken up. Sibyl thought that she really should talk to him about it, comfort him, since his other friends seemed less than inclined to be sympathetic. When Dorian Surana had suggested over breakfast one morning that this mysterious girl wasn't even real, Jowan hadn't even had the energy to get defensive. He had just stared into his porridge like a little boy lost as the color rose in his cheeks.

But Sibyl had always believed him. That way he used to smile, every time he mentioned her—Jowan couldn't fake that feeling, that utter starry-eyed infatuation. It was something Dorian wouldn't understand, but she knew it well enough.

Dorian himself was the one taking up all her time, with his overwrought dramatics about his own impending Harrowing. It was his way of deflecting—he was terrified, if not of the test itself, then of the implications of becoming a full Circle mage with his phylactery shipped off to some stronghold in Denerim, locked away just as he feared he would be for the rest of his life. Dorian was afraid of very little, and ashamed of even less, but she knew that he would never admit how much the idea of pitting young apprentices against demons on pain of death bothered him.

It was probably as close as he ever got to having any actual moral principles these days, so she suffered his complaints in support of what masqueraded for his conscience, if nothing else.

He would make a perfect Libertarian someday. Some of the enchanters had been chatting her up recently, ever since her Harrowing—one an Aequitarian, another a Loyalist. And as strong as the push was to affiliate herself, she just wanted to stay out of it. She had heard the whispers in the corridors, the heated fights in the Great Hall, and knew firsthand how unpleasant politics in the Tower could be. Dorian probably wouldn't join a fraternity, either, though—if there was anything he hated more than being under the thumb of the Chantry, it was having to lift himself out of his comfortable haze of apathy to actually _do_ something other than stir up trouble like a bored schoolboy.

Well. Jowan was the real issue now. And as soon as she could assign Dorian's attention away from taking his mounting anxiety out on her—perhaps by informing one of their old teachers that he hadn't even studied for all of five collective minutes since his Harrowing date had been set—she would find Jowan, and sort him out.

It was as good a plan as any.

Sibyl managed to corner them both—the enchanter and Dorian—in the back section of the library before slipping away, unnoticed in the heat of the argument. The sound of the older woman's voice was still clearly audible from the hall as she yelled about the necessity of correct preparation for entering the Fade and accused Dorian of "flouncing about as if he thought Andraste herself was going to deign to preserve his conceited arse." He was stuck trying to deflect her tirade with desperate placations of "yes-ma'am, no-ma'am, so-can-I-go-now-ma'am," to very little avail.

Satisfied that he would be occupied for awhile, she let out a sigh of relief and turned to start down the hallway. She hardly made it three paces away when Jowan seemed to materialize before her, stepping out from a nearby alcove and taking a fierce hold on her arm. She only barely managed to hold back her shriek of surprise, but quickly forgave him when she heard the waver of fear in his voice.

"Can we talk now? Please?"

"Actually, you couldn't have picked a better time," she answered as he tugged her further along down the hallway. "Care to explain why you're going to such an effort to make yourself seem extra sketchy of late?"

"It's important," he said under his breath. "We need to go somewhere private."

"I have Dorian incapacitated for at least ten minutes, if that's what you're worried about," she assured him with a smile.

"I—okay," he sighed, taking a wary glance up and down the corridor to make sure there was no one nearby who might hear. "I suppose there's nowhere all that much better to go, is there?"

"What is it, Jowan?" she asked. "You've been upset for weeks. _Unusually _upset."

"Because it's the worst thing that could happen," he said, swallowing painfully, and Sibyl took a deep breath. Whatever it was he had been holding back, it was about to come spilling out in all its painful truth. "They're going to make me Tranquil. Uldred—he didn't turn me in, exactly, but he planted some evidence before he left with the army… and now… Greagoir thinks I'm too much of a risk and wants to have me made Tranquil."

"Jowan, this is—how do you know this?" Sibyl asked, her voice immediately dropping almost below a whisper. It just wasn't safe to speak very loudly or openly about what Senior Enchanter Uldred was or was not up to, even with him gone to Ostagar. And if he had chosen to target Jowan, then she feared he may have little hope. Mages and apprentices who Uldred accused of dabbling in blood magic were almost always executed or made Tranquil very shortly afterwards.

She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.

"I… it's Lily. She's an initiate. _She's_ the woman I've been talking about all this time," Jowan confessed. "She saw the papers on the Knight-Commander's desk. She believes that it's just rumors."

"An _initiate?_" Sibyl repeated, aghast. And she had thought things couldn't get much worse, or more complicated. "Jowan. You've been seeing an initiate for all of this time? That's your secret? Maker help us, I knew Dorian would rub off on you eventually."

"It's not like that—I love her! And our relationship is hardly the worst trouble I'm in anymore," he hissed back, taking a step away from her and burying his face in his hands. "I know it would destroy her if she thought that I've done blood magic, but I'd do anything for her, and she doesn't have to—I just want to do what's best for us. You believe me, don't you?"

Sibyl sighed heavily and pursed her lips. "Of course I believe you. But I don't see how that's going to be of any help."

"You're a Harrowed mage now," he said. "You can get supplies from the stockroom to help Lily and I break into the repository and destroy my phylactery. Then we can escape together, move to some remote village in the middle of nowhere, and never be heard from again or cause trouble for anyone. I _promise_."

"Jowan…" she began. What he was asking put her in great personal danger, even after he was gone. And that was assuming that they succeeded and he really would be able to escape without being caught—a huge if, considering Jowan's track record. Still, she would have considered that an acceptable risk to take to help him, but he was also asking her to betray the Circle—and _that _was something she could not do. "You can't be asking me this."

"Why not, Sib?" he asked desperately, the childhood nickname clawing at her conscience like a taunt. Jowan took two shaky steps forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, pleading. "You're my only chance. You're all Lily and I have. You have to help us."

"I—I can't… you can't ask me to do this. Do _not _ask me to do this," she whispered with more conviction than she felt, squirming uncomfortably in his grasp. Her chest squeezed painfully with guilt as she spoke, her mind racing even as she refused, trying to come up with a better solution than… what he wanted. There was always another way. She could speak to the First Enchanter, tell him the truth. Get him to change his mind. _Anything._

"This is… this is an opportunity Dorian would jump at," she told him carefully, after a moment's thought. "Please. Ask him instead."

"He hasn't been Harrowed yet," Jowan argued. "We haven't much time, Sib. I am _begging _youto_ help _me."

"He will be soon," Sibyl said apologetically. Yes. She had to believe that this was the right choice, even as Jowan was staring back at her in utter disbelief. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed, her mouth uncomfortably dry. "I won't help you go against the Circle anymore. Ask Dorian."

"Ask me what?"

The sounds of the enchanter's heated lecture had faded into silence not too long ago, and apparently the third member of their trio had been quicker to extract himself from chastisement than Sibyl had thought he would be. At least it gave her an easy way to avoid the look of betrayal growing in Jowan's eyes.

She immediately felt relaxed at the sound of the elf's familiar voice, and she could sense his curiosity even before she turned and saw the intrigued grin on his face. He closed the door to the library behind him with one last look of nervousness at the enchanter still pacing within, before turning back to his friends with a casual little shrug.

"I can't, Jowan," she said with finality, pulling herself away from him. She had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything stupid as the hurt and panic clouded his features. It would have been better if he had gotten angry or yelled—Jowan always had to be the polite one. "We'll fix this. Dorian will help you."

"I will?" the elf asked again, raising his eyebrows and giving them both a bemused look. She only smiled politely in response, but Jowan looked as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

"But he's not—I can't believe you're just going to say _no_—"

When he looked to Sibyl, his mouth hanging slightly open—dumbstruck and speechless—she hung her head and stared at her feet, unwilling to meet his eyes. He glanced, desperately, to Dorian, who gazed back at him with his usual pleasantly unperturbed, but interested, expression. Sibyl expected that Jowan would explain everything then. The rumors of Jowan's involvement in blood magic wouldn't faze Dorian, the _fact_ of Jowan's involvement with a Chantry initiate would probably delight him, and absolutely nothing caught the elf's attention more readily than a good plan to undermine both the Circle _and_ the templars. It wouldn't even take convincing to get him to break a few rules to help Jowan escape the Tower. Even if Sibyl had been reluctant, Dorian was a sure thing.

Instead, Jowan took off down the hallway without uttering another word, leaving Sibyl to deal with the curiosity that this spectacle had undoubtedly caused in Dorian's mind. He seemed to take a lack of explanation exceptionally well, however.

"I imagine I'll be finding out what that was all about soon, then?" he asked. "You know how much I love anticipation."

"Oh, you'll enjoy this one, I promise," Sibyl told him, rubbing her eyes warily. He leaned in and threw an arm around her shoulders casually, directing her down the hallway in the opposite direction of the one Jowan had sprinted off in.

"I await the reveal with bated breath," he assured her. "Now, as for you and me, we need to discuss how I am going to punish you for setting Enchanter Deidre on me. I was lucky to get out of there with my life and my eardrums still intact. She's worse than Senior Enchanter Wynne with the lecturing!"

Sibyl allowed herself a soft chuckle and leaned into him. She let him talk, his words washing over her like a familiar blanket, and she was content to be sucked back into a world of less devastating worries, at least for now.

* * *

**Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:28 Dragon  
**_**A couple of years before…**_

Perhaps it was pointless to go into specifics and try to pinpoint when everything had begun to spiral so hopelessly out of control. It likely had been that way ever since he had been plucked from the Denerim Alienage as an infant, after all, and that was an event of which he had no recollection.

Surely there must have been some point in his life that he had not felt so _powerless. _But if there was such a time, even at some carefree point in his childhood, then it, too, was long forgotten.

Dorian saw his confinement as an apprentice of the Circle as a horrible inconvenience of circumstance, one that left him utterly without control of everything a person _should_ have control of: his movements, his right to privacy, his life's direction. All waylaid and subjugated by a Chantry who judged mages not for who they were, but what they were in danger of becoming.

There were those that had escaped. One mage was on at least his sixth or seventh attempt, and Dorian held him particularly in high regard for how loudly the Knight-Commander screamed each time he found the mage mysteriously gone once again. But his own efforts to break free had largely failed miserably, and the act of _trying _to run away and instead being caught actually did more to sap his will than just staying where he was did. At least then he could tell himself that he was only biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to fall into his lap so he could snatch it and finally be _free._

So instead of hatching escape schemes, he opted to simply… float along. He glided from lesson to lesson with an easy smile, and passed from the company of apprentice to fellow-disgruntled-apprentice at what felt like his slightest whim. He slipped between enchanter and mage in the corridors, endeavoring to avoid the glare of the templars whenever possible and searching for ways to exploit their watchfulness to their disadvantage when it was not.

Distractions were the key to happiness, and as full of books as the Tower was, _lessons_ were not nearly distraction enough.

Nighttime was often when it all broke down with startling clarity: he would lie motionless in the dark, Jowan curled slightly on his side in the next bed, Sibyl sleeping soundly in the girls' dormitory down the hall, and hundreds of his fellows lying in slumber across the entirety of Kinloch Hold, each one of them under the ever-present scrutiny of Chantry watch.

Even when he slept, he couldn't be trusted to be alone—so how could he even close his eyes?

That was when he would slip out of bed and tear through the hallways under the cloak of darkness, memorizing the route of each templar's patrol and circumventing them all on his passage upwards, covering flights upon flights of stairs, climbing to the highest reaches of the Tower and not stopping even then, until he had made it onto the very top of the Hold itself.

Standing on the roof in the open air, it was always cold, and there always seemed to be a chill. Perhaps it was the altitude, or a breeze coming in from the lake, but the feeling was magnificent all the same.

The view wasn't particularly spectacular. In most directions there was nothing to be seen but the waters of Lake Calenhad stretching out into the horizon, and to the east, there was only the rundown tavern on the other side of the shore—but that was what Dorian loved to stare at most.

Beyond that pathetic hovel, beyond the trees it was safely nestled between, there was _something._ He would stand as close to the edge as he dared, trying to wrap his head around the idea that there was an entire world out there that he could hardly even imagine from the confines of the Circle Tower. And when that thought became too much to bear—when he found himself considering that perhaps it wasn't too far to just leap and allow the Maker to decide whether he should be allowed to swim to freedom—he took a step back and simply stretched out on the ground and stared into the sky.

For that entire boundless expanse of stars existed an opposite and equally unfathomable stretch of earth. For every constellation he picked out, there was a nation to visit, a city to discover. For every star, there was a person he would never meet.

On the nights that he could not sleep he stayed there instead, atop his prison since he could not get outside of it. He watched the stars until the sky began to glow with orange and pink and the sun finally peeked out from behind the trees, shining down upon the ugly tavern.

Sunrises could make anything beautiful.

They were almost as glorious as the sound of yelling that inevitably began to drift up from Tower below him—templars calling to each other, yelling that an apprentice had gone missing, _that little elven son-of-a-bitch has done it again._

He would just lie on his back and stare at the sky, letting the feeling of power wash over him, knowing that they would fret and scream and fear that one of their mages had gotten loose for as long as he stayed up there: silent and in control.

His moment could not last for too long—he didn't want to be _found_—and he would invariably climb down, somehow heavier than when he had made his ascent, no longer floating along but dragging his feet, weighted down like a criminal brought before his lord for sentencing.

But always he managed to slip back among the others, usually grabbing a pitcher of water and smiling pleasantly when the templars demanded to know, _where had he been?_ He would raise the jug innocently and explain he had simply been thirsty and they must have missed him as he made his way to the kitchens for a drink.

Not a single one of them ever believed it—but nor could they prove his lie.

And just for a moment, the weight would lift once again.

* * *

But sneaking out of bed, trysts in the corridors, sending templars on wild goose chases for forbidden magic and hidden passages that had never existed—that was all too easy. It was low stakes gambling, the punishment he risked far too banal to make the payoff of getting away with it particularly thrilling.

When you had nothing to lose, it was hard not to lust for the highest staked games where you stood to gain everything. Not to mention that the lower his odds were, the more he had to rely on his own wit and the less he could count on chance to get him through.

_That _was exhilaration. Therein lay the opportunity.

One of the girls he was seeing had an eye for templars.

She was a few years older than he was, fast approaching her Harrowing, and he wasn't really sure _what_ her deal was—they didn't talk much outside of negotiating the most interesting spot to have sex in. Conversations often consisted of a series of more and more precarious locations until one of them backed down, too embarrassed to proceed with the other's suggestion. The winner didn't get anything other than the momentary bragging rights of being the most unscrupulous, but the payoff was always more than adequate for both of them.

But of course, it was still an ultimately safe game, as losing was nearly impossible. If they weren't found, they had still had sex. And if they _were _discovered—she loved that even more, when the templars found them in compromising positions.

Dorian found that he preferred being used for her purposes immensely to being used by the either the Circle or the Chantry.

There was one templar in particular she was after. She would forfeit their exchanges as soon as Dorian mentioned any spot that was near this templar's post, and it was like she lived to see the self-righteous blush that rose in his cheeks whenever he stumbled into them—mages were allowed to have dalliances with each other, even if it was discouraged, though they were _supposed_ to at least be discreet about it. She savored the way he always swallowed thickly before stammering out his orders for them to find somewhere less brazen, his eyes lingering too long on the exposed skin of her leg or the sight of a bare nipple.

She called him her _mark_. Like she was an assassin and he the newly condemned.

It was only a matter of time before he caved, she would tell him, her laugh throaty and mirthless. She had long hair, strawberry-blonde, and clear, watery blue eyes. Whenever they made eye contact, it was like facing two mirrors towards each other; a bottomless pit staring into another bottomless pit.

Her arms were covered in scars. Some were new, an angry red, and others were clearly older—years older—some pink and smooth, others white and puckered. There were scars on her inner thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts.

He never asked. He either already knew or didn't want to. She had mentioned something, once, muttered something about a senior enchanter and his lessons before collapsing into his arms in a trembling heap.

There had been no escalating exchange of locations that night. No tears, either, and no sex. Only those clear, blank eyes.

He hadn't asked. Hadn't wanted to know.

She tried to throw herself out of the window on the highest floor of the Tower shortly afterwards, but her templar-mark had caught her and pulled her back before she could make the jump. When she told him she hadn't been trying to escape, by some miracle, he believed her.

She had been smiling the next time they met, glowing with an uncharacteristically relaxed air of satisfaction. She wouldn't say why, but Dorian knew.

He understood _that_—the game she played with her templar—but he didn't get the rest of it, didn't get suicide. Even among the malcontents, it seemed he was the outsider. He enjoyed being alive far too much to kill himself, and the indignity of allowing himself to die without any clear memories of anything outside of the Circle Tower seemed entirely unappealing.

He wasn't the problem, everyone else was. And he was going to fight them all until he felt it was fixed, and enjoy every Maker-damned minute of it just to spite them.

Maybe it was because Jowan and Sibyl were so startlingly normal. Neither of them minded their lives in the Tower so much—Jowan especially had told him it was a vast improvement on the very little he remembered of his mother. Maybe they were his lifeline tethering him back into the calmer, more pleasant life of most Circle apprentices. Maybe they kept him from falling away completely into the darkness his strawberry-blonde embodied. At least when he laughed with them, it felt genuine, and not like a futile grasp for a sense of control that stayed defiantly out of reach.

And anyway, he and Sibyl were also First Enchanter Irving's star pupils. She fit the role far better than he did, with all her obvious sweetness and loyalty to the Circle, but the First Enchanter's interest in his talent was still one more golden opportunity to exploit and revel in, so he had no complaints.

With his two closest friends at his sides during lessons, he could distract himself by mastering the one thing he _did _have complete control over: his worth as a mage. He could complete exercises and show off for his teachers, delighting in their uneasy praise and the knowledge that they were always wondering with some anxiety exactly what he would choose to do with his talent.

After lessons, he found other ways to occupy himself and stave off the creeping feeling that he was trapped. It worked well enough, and seemed to stem the tide of ever-present helplessness he felt looming over him. And one day, it wasn't his strawberry-blonde friend's templar who found them in a dark, underused corner of an upper level corridor.

It was another templar entirely, one he had only seen but never spoken to: quiet, brooding, clearly unhappy with his lot. He had even been stationed at the Tower for some time… everything she had told him would make a templar all the easier to reel in, to chip away at his willpower, to _break._

When the templar stumbled upon that afternoon's hiding spot and saw her—that glorious body, that silky, shining hair flowing down her back in breathtaking waves—his eyes passed over her without incident, as if she wasn't even there.

Instead, the templar's eyes met with Dorian's, almost as if by accident. And then the man had _blushed_ like a second day recruit, unable to look away.

Golden opportunity.

* * *

**Thus ends part one (of roughly ten). Reviews are loved. Reviewers are loved even more. (Especially you constructive criticism types, so don't hold back!) As always, thanks for reading!**


	2. Envy, part 1

**II. ENVY**

_In the absence of light, shadows thrive._

**-Threnodies 8:21**

**Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:18 Dragon**

They couldn't have been more than seven at the time.

Their lessons had only ended for the day less than half an hour ago, and the three friends still stood in the apprentice classrooms, arguing about what to do with their few hours of freedom before supper. Their enchanter had taken to regaling them with different tales and legends recently, and Sibyl and Jowan had clung immediately to the story of Dane and the Werewolf. It was their favorite by far, and they could easily spend an afternoon re-enacting the hero's famous exploits.

But Dorian was sick of it—they had played Dane and the Werewolf at least three times a week for what seemed like _ages, _and what was worse, he had been the werewolf every time.

"It's not fair," he said, an angry whine creeping into his voice as he crossed his arms. Sibyl and Jowan stood side-by-side in front of him, their postures equally stubborn. Jowan was holding a short, wooden toy sword. "I don't want to play Dane and the Werewolf anymore. I'm sick of being the stupid wolf."

"You have to be the wolf," Sibyl said reasonably. "Dane is a human and a boy. So obviously Jowan has to be Dane."

"That's still not fair, I don't want to be the werewolf!" Dorian insisted. "Why don't you be the werewolf for once?"

"Because she's a _lady_," Jowan answered, as if it was the plainest thing in the world. "I have to save her from you. Unless _you_ wanna be the lady."

"Dane didn't save any ladies from werewolves! You don't even play the story right!" Dorian huffed.

"Fine, if you're going to be a baby about it then we can play something else," Sibyl sighed, rolling her eyes and exchanging a look with Jowan. "What do you want to play instead?"

"I want to play a game about just elves for once!"

"There aren't any games about _just elves_," Jowan argued. "We're not Dalish!"

"So what? I'm not a wolf!" Dorian shot back, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He looked to his feet for a moment, as if thinking very carefully about something, then looked up at his friends with a bright, hopeful smile. "We can… we can play Dalish Creators. I'll be Elgar'nan the All-Father—he's in charge. Sibyl, you can be Falon'Din and Jowan can be Dirthamen. They're twins, and best friends."

"Why do _you_ get to be the All-Father?" Jowan asked.

"Because when we play Dane I always have to be the stupid werewolf!" Dorian snapped.

"Now _you're_ not being fair," Sibyl said, with her usual tone that was rife with condescension. Dorian always suspected that their enchanter told Sibyl she was right far too often, and that was what had caused her to adopt that infuriatingly superior tenor. "What if I don't want to be Falon'Din? Jowan and I haven't read any of those Dalish books, we don't even know how to play Dalish Creators."

"So? I can just tell you. Fen'Harel is the evil Lord of Tricksters, and he betrayed us and locked us up in our realms so we couldn't save Arlathan when the Tevinter magisters came to enslave the elves. So we have to escape and wreak our vengeance on Fen'Harel… Elgar'nan is the God of Vengeance, too, you know," Dorian explained, sounding very satisfied with himself and his new game.

"Okay…" Jowan agreed, looking hesitantly to Sibyl. "That doesn't sound too bad. Who's gonna be Fen'Harel?"

"The Knight-Commander, of course," Dorian said proudly. "It even makes sense, since he keeps all the mages locked in the Tower!"

"No way!" Sibyl snapped, putting her hands on her hips and giving him her best severe, chastising frown. "We're not playing that. We can't wreak vengeance on the Knight-Commander, you're just trying to get us all in trouble again! Now go hide behind the bookcases and be the werewolf!"

"Either I get to be Elgar'nan or I'm not playing," Dorian said sharply, glaring at them both. "I told you I'm not playing Dane and the Werewolf anymore!"

"Ugh, if you're going to be so immature then you _can't_ play with us!" Sibyl shouted at him. "You're always complaining anyway. You can just go find another elf to play your stupid knife-ear games with!"

As soon as she finished saying the words, she gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth. Jowan stood at her side, gaping in disbelief. Sibyl had never said any words that were even sort of bad before, let alone insulted someone—she'd especially never said mean things to _Dorian_. Their friend stared back at them both, his bottom lip quivering for just a moment as he blinked rapidly. Then he took a deep breath and steeled his expression, turning away from them.

"Dorian, I'm so sorry," Sibyl called after him, taking a step forwards. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean—"

"I don't want to talk to you," he said coldly. "Maybe you and Jowan can pretend that you marry Dane and his sodding werewolf if you love them so much."

"No, wait, please don't go! I'm sorry! We can't play it without you!" Sibyl yelled, and she didn't even flinch or think to scold him for saying a bad word like she usually did. But Dorian didn't look back as he stalked out of the room, leaving Jowan and Sibyl to sit down dejectedly next to each other.

"I can't believe you called him… a _knife-ear_," Jowan said, his voice hushed dramatically. "I've never heard you say anything like that before."

"I didn't mean to," Sibyl said, sounding on the verge of tears as she began tugging at the tassels on her robes fretfully. "I really really didn't."

Jowan nodded and looked down to study his hands with feigned interest. They sat in silence, both their faces set in distraught frowns, neither sure what to do now that Dorian had stormed out. They couldn't very well play Dane and the Werewolf without the werewolf. And they didn't much feel like playing anymore, anyway.

After a few moments had passed, an older woman in Senior Enchanter's robes stepped out from behind the bookshelves, her graying hair tied back in a bun. She saw the two apprentices sitting side-by-side in an uncharacteristic, penitent hush, and sat down delicately besides Sibyl.

"Sibyl, Jowan," she said kindly. "Is something wrong? Where's Dorian? Don't you three usually play together after lessons?"

Sibyl sniffed softly and continued tugging at her tassels, but Jowan looked up at the older mage uncertainly. "He left, Enchanter Wynne. Sibyl called him a knife-ears and he got mad."

Wynne tutted softly and touched Sibyl's shoulder. "I thought I heard some arguing over here. But that doesn't sound very much like you, Sibyl. What happened?"

"He was being a baby," Sibyl said, her voice shaky. "He wouldn't play Dane and the Werewolf. I was just angry. I didn't mean to call him a name, I promise. I said I was sorry, but he didn't listen."

"Everyone makes mistakes, child," Wynne said soothingly. "But you should think about why things ever got to that point, so you can learn from it and keep it from happening again. Now, why didn't Dorian want to play Dane and the Werewolf with you?"

"He said he didn't want to be the werewolf again," Sibyl said, taking slow breaths that still teetered on the edge of becoming sobs. "But that's stupid. He can't be Dane, he's an elf. And obviously he can't be the lady in distress either. I wasn't trying to be mean to him! It's just the way the game works! Isn't it?"

Wynne seemed to consider this for a moment, and ran a comforting hand through the young girl's hair, shushing her sniffles.

"Did you ever think that perhaps Dorian dislikes always being forced to play the villain?" Wynne asked, looking to Jowan as well. "Elves don't have very many legends of their own anymore, and sometimes that can make them feel… left out. Do you understand?"

Sibyl gave a watery laugh and shook her head. "No, you don't understand, Enchanter Wynne. Dorian doesn't ever feel bad about anything. He said himself that anyone can say whatever they like about him, but he doesn't care. And it's true. I've never seen him cry or anything."

"Many people try to hide their feelings when they're sad," Wynne explained. "Perhaps he is afraid of being made fun of, if he tells you how he truly feels. Part of being a good friend is showing him that you're not the sort of person who does that and supporting him. Do you think it would be okay to let him borrow the legend of Dane, sometimes? Even though he's an elf?"

"I suppose he would make a good Dane," Sibyl agreed, nodding solemnly. "I just never thought of it like that. I don't mind sharing Dane with the elves."

"And maybe we could play Dalish Creators if he wants to," Jowan added. "As long as we don't make the Knight-Commander Fen'Harel."

Wynne smiled encouragingly. "That sounds like a good plan, Jowan. So… he wanted to pretend the Knight-Commander was the Dalish trickster god?"

"He said it made sense because Fen'Harel was evil and trapped the Creators. He doesn't like the Knight-Commander much," Sibyl explained.

"I suppose he doesn't," Wynne sighed, shaking her head slightly. Dorian was already notorious among the enchanters who taught the younger children as something of a budding anti-authoritarian, but none of them had been successful in curbing those tendencies in him. "But do you think you'll be able to apologize to him now, and compromise? Sometimes it just helps to take a step back and think about things from the other person's perspective."

Both Jowan and Sibyl nodded in unison, and thanked the enchanter for her advice. With another kind smile, she shooed them off to go find their friend and patch things up. After he'd had some time to cool off, and hearing that he wouldn't have to be the werewolf anymore if he didn't want to, Dorian forgave them both fairly quickly.

The next day, while their age group had its turn in the library, Sibyl snuck away for a moment to find the Circle Tower's best book about the Dalish pantheon—the one that Dorian himself had spent months poring over not too long ago. She hid it underneath her robes and snuck it out of the library, even though that was forbidden, so she could hide it in the dormitories and read it under the covers after curfew. She spent weeks reading all of the stories and tales of the elven Creators, committing each of them to memory so the next time Dorian brought them up she could show him that she was ready and happy to play games about elves, too.

Enchanter Wynne was right, after all. There were things that upset Dorian, no matter what he said. He might shrug off most comments and teasing with a smile, but whenever something particularly hurtful happened to him he always got all closed up and quiet and steely-eyed.

She hated that closed up look. She really didn't want to be someone who made him feel that way.

But months later she had practically memorized the whole book, and he still hadn't brought up the Dalish Creators again. So the next time she, Dorian, and Jowan had free time after their lessons were over and they were deciding what to do, she brought it up herself.

"How about you be Elger'nan today," she said, grinning at him. "Jowan can be June, god of the craft, and _I'll_ be Fen'Harel."

Dorian stiffened for a moment, but then looked back at her blankly—not upset, but not pleased either.

"Why?" he asked, a little more harshly than necessary. "I thought you wanted to be Aveline, the lady knight from Orlais today."

"It's okay," Sibyl said. "We can do that later. We never got to do Dalish Creators like you wanted."

"Well, forget the sodding Dalish Creators. It's was a stupid idea anyway," he said with a shrug. "They're not even real. So I guess Jowan gets to be the knight Kaleva and I'll be the Dalish who find baby Aveline, right?"

Frowning, Sibyl nodded, and that was what they did.

It just… didn't seem fair.

* * *

**Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:29 Dragon**

It was late in the evening, and only a few hours remained before curfew when all apprentices were supposed to return to their dormitories. The classrooms on the first level were usually deserted by this time, with most apprentices relaxing in one of the common areas on the other levels, or in the library if they wished to continue their studies beyond their daily lessons. It was for that reason—the privacy—that Sibyl preferred to do much of her studying and reading at night, in the empty classrooms, surrounded by nothing but peaceful candlelight and quiet.

Tonight, both Dorian and Jowan had joined her. Their teachers had been making noises about their Harrowings getting closer, and reminded them that they needed to consider what they would do with their talents once they were made full mages of the Circle. Neither boy was particularly motivated to look into their prospects, but Sibyl had insisted they at least look through a few books with her. Jowan agreed because there was no reason _not _to, and Dorian agreed mostly because he knew he would be able to derail their focus easily enough. A number of outrageously salacious rumors about his extracurricular exploits with a templar had been circulating among the apprentices lately, and he had been uncharacteristically unforthcoming with details. For once, he had not played a part in either initiating or indulging the rumors, and he hoped that would get at least _one _of his friends interested in what they would normally pay no attention to.

So when Sibyl sat down at the main table between the two of them, laying a selection of enormous, ancient tomes out before them on the pretense of getting them to pick a specialization that might be of use to the Circle, Dorian placed an elbow delicately on one of the books and rested his cheek in his hand, smiling at her mischievously.

"So I've been sleeping with Templar Drass," he said conversationally.

"Funny. I also heard someone saying today that you serviced the Knight-Commander in his office," she answered impassively, turning through the pages of the tome in front of her until she came to the relevant section about various duties that Circle mages versed in the spirit school were allowed to perform.

"This is too much information already," Jowan said, grimacing in disgust as Dorian waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively.

Sibyl did her best to ignore them both. "Oh, look at this! If you learn all the mana alteration and anti-magic spells, you can be allowed to go out on some templar assignments in the field."

"Sounds exhilarating, being allowed to aid the Chantry in hunting down your fellow mages," Dorian answered dismissively. "But not nearly as exhilarating as _servicing_ the Knight-Commander. What exactly did I do? Polish him up? Did he need to be sharpened like a dull blade? I wonder if we used any oil…"

Jowan reached over Sibyl to give him a sharp jab, and she swatted his hand away.

"Sorry, but I didn't want to stick around to hear all the gory details. I'd just eaten," she admitted, shooting him a smirk. Dorian didn't even bother to try and look offended. "How about this? _Mages specializing in primal spells, like master herbalists, may be allowed out on their own recognizance to conduct research in the field_… you've always been good at electrical spells, maybe you could—oh, but you have to have been made a Senior Enchanter first."

Dorian snorted. "I'm about as likely to become a Senior Enchanter as I am to ever be allowed under Greagoir's little purple skirt."

"Oh, come on," she said. "They'll make you one, someday. It's not as if Irving chooses them for their agreeable demeanors. Look at Uldred."

"I don't know," Jowan said. "I doubt Uldred spent his entire life as an apprentice trying to figure out the best time and place to set templars aflame."

"Bet he also never _bedded _a templar, either," Dorian added with a grin. "And I'm not talking about my supposed tryst with the Knight-Commander, here. Templar Drass, remember? I just told you two. Why don't you listen to me?"

Sibyl sighed and stopped turning pages long enough to give him a look of irritation.

"Every day, there are three more templars or enchanters you've supposedly slept with. Don't get me wrong, I know you would if you could, but even _you_ don't get around quicker than a bad case of warts," she said flatly, and Jowan stifled a snigger.

"Cute. Don't forget, I'm also harder to get rid of than two visits to a healer," he said cheerfully. "But I'm being serious. Neither of you have heard about Drass, specifically, have you? I've been intentionally discreet."

"You're not capable of being discreet," Sibyl told him. "You're far too proud of yourself to keep secrets."

"Exactly, which is why I'm trying to tell you about it now! But letting the truth get past you two could end with me in a real spot of trouble, so you have to keep this quiet."

"Templar Drass is in the chapel every morning and night, praying like Andraste herself lit a holy fire under his arse," Jowan said skeptically. "You expect us to believe you seduced _him?_"

"Yes…" Dorian responded thoughtfully, the sarcasm creeping into his voice. "It's almost as if he's praying fervently for deliverance, isn't it? I wonder what terrible sins he has to atone for… do you think maybe he's screwing an apprentice? That would certainly explain it."

He grinned at them both, his eyes alight with a sort of extravagant glee. They had both heard this type of talk from him before, of course, but Sibyl especially had gotten sick of it quickly. He had gotten it into his head that he should seduce a templar ever since he had met that one older apprentice… this stick-thin, out-of-her-mind strawberry-blonde who had all these awful scars—_blood magic _scars, everyone knew, even if no one had been able to prove it.

It made her nauseous just to ponder what other sorts of things the bitch had gotten him to do, but at least until now his talk was always in the hypothetical—_Sib, what would you say if I got myself a templar? Wouldn't that just be something? You think I could do it, Jowan?_

It was no secret that some templars struggled with lust and their vows of chastity. And Dorian made a point of being indiscriminate with who he bedded—men, women, apprentices, the odd equally indiscriminate Harrowed mage; basically, anyone who didn't say _no _outright. It was one of those things she and Jowan tolerated about him, because he was their friend, and had been since before any of them could remember.

Well, _she _only tolerated it. Jowan didn't seem to care as long as he kept the details to himself.

But as unlikely as it seemed that Dorian would ever get the chance, she wouldn't put it past him to actually proposition a templar if he thought he saw an opportunity. And judging from the self-satisfied, expectant little grin on his face, he had.

"Maker's breath," she said finally. "I never thought you would actually _manage_ it."

"Yeah… and _Drass_," Jowan said shortly after. "He's just always so _somber. _Like every day is his worst yet."

"Apparently it's a side-effect of sleeping with Dorian," Sibyl said before he had a chance to begin gloating about his conquest, trying to re-focus on flipping through her books. "Everyone he's been with is depressed. What about Spirit Healing, Jowan? That's useful."

"No, I'm terrible at healing spells," Jowan answered sadly. "Remember when I tried to heal your paper cut that one time? It didn't even stop bleeding_._"

"Then I'll look for something under entropy," Sibyl went on, now turning pages rapidly. "You're best at those."

Dorian made a soft, disgruntled noise; he was becoming restless because neither of them were taking his news seriously. He had been keeping this templar business entirely a secret ever since it had begun almost two months ago, and Jowan and Sibyl were his closest friends. They should have at least been _mildly_ intrigued.

"Well, don't either of you rush to congratulate me or anything," he said, playing up his indignation over their indifference. "I've only performed one of the most unlikely tasks a mage could ever hope to accomplish. I have swayed an unswayable son of the Chantry from his vows to the Maker. They should make a medal for this sort of occasion, really."

"Yes, it's very obvious what he sees in you," Sibyl said wryly, but without looking up from the tome. "But really, what's the point? Why do this to him if he feels so guilty about it he spends most of his off hours in the chapel praying for forgiveness?"

"Why not?" Dorian asked, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I _can_ do it, so I might as well. And he _should _feel guilty, for a lot more than bungling that little vow of chastity. They have the right to watch over our every move, tell us what to do, _kill _us if they decide it's just. If I can lead one of them into breaking their vows, then I turn the tables back on them."

She sighed, readying herself to go through with him once again why the Circle of Magi was necessary and how it had protected him from a world that hated and feared mages. She couldn't say that she always relished the watchful eye of the templars, but she understood and appreciated its merits. Some of them were even kind and interesting people, if one bothered to get to know them instead of blindly resenting them without reservation. And she was definitely thankful for the First Enchanter, as well as the rest of the Circle, for the guidance they had shown her in her life.

Sometimes she suspected that Dorian tolerated her respect for the Circle in much the same way that she tolerated his more disreputable pastimes. And although he had been known to take her advice on some issues, she doubted that she would be able to deter him from a course of action he already seemed so very set on—not to mention _pleased_ about.

"Why not target Carroll, then?" Jowan asked suddenly, thinking of the young, rusty haired templar who was a bit of a simpleton—rumor had it he had found an illegal supplier of lyrium and the stuff had addled his head. "If there's ever been a templar who could be easily led, it's him."

"Carroll's a dolt," Dorian answered, grimacing.

"No, he has a point," Sibyl agreed with a laugh, looking up from her book. If she wouldn't be able to talk him out of his madness, she might as well go along with it and see what overarching factors were at play. "Wouldn't that just make it easier for you?"

"I couldn't even imagine—don't _want_ to imagine him in that way at all," Dorian continued, his lip still slightly curled in distaste at the thought. "Thanks for the mental image. He acts like he's about five."

"Oh, and Drass is just so _sexy,_ is he? Is there something about middle age that turns you on?" Sibyl pressed on. The glow of the candles on the table illuminated her smile in the most devious way, and as withering as Dorian's own expression was, he had to give her credit. She learned that smile from him.

"Hey, he can't be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. And while we're on the subject, there's nothing wrong with an older man," Dorian answered lightly, trying to brush off her ribbing. "Really, there's even something about very alluring about _Greagoir_, isn't there, and apparently I've even already _serviced _him, so—"

Jowan coughed, as if he had choked on thin air. "Ugh—please, 'alluring' and 'Greagoir' don't even belong in the same sentence, let alone_—_"

Dorian cut him off easily, his grin impish.

"But alas, in truth he is as stoic as the stone this Tower is built on," he sighed dramatically, ignoring Jowan and gazing to the ceiling with an exaggerated air of infatuation. They all knew perfectly well that he had no designs on the Knight-Commander. "But really, Carroll I could just as easily convince to stray from his vows with a shiny object or a bag of sweets. Drass… there's a challenge there. He knows what we're doing. He's… _conflicted,_ and yet… still he comes back to me."

Sibyl laughed and leaned towards him, catching him with an infuriatingly _knowing_ smirk.

"Oh. So you just… want to be _desired, _then_. _You want someone to want and like _you. _That's… surprisingly sweet, in your own twisted way."

Dorian's mouth fell open and he was about to protest, vehemently, but the words wouldn't seem to come out. She watched him for a moment, amused, as he fumbled about, trying to counter her claim.

"_No._ I just… want to be in control of one of them for a change," he said defensively.

"I don't think that's it," she teased, with another cheeky giggle. "Maker, you have feelings for him, don't you? Why else keep it a secret from us for so long, hm?"

"I don't have _feelings _for him, and I certainly don't need him to like me," he answered with a cold evenness, and the laugh died in her throat. Even Jowan tensed at her side—that was his _too-_even tone, his "jerk who sleeps with the crazy blonde bitch" voice. "If I only wanted people to like me, I could just act like _you_, couldn't I, Sib? Innocent and sweet and pure… after all, you reel in more templars with that act than even I do."

She drew away from him sharply. The sides of his mouth twitched up as she did, but it wasn't exactly a true smile; there was nothing _happy_ about it.

"Dorian," Jowan warned, anxious. "Just… calm down."

"I'm perfectly calm," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. It made her skin crawl. "I'm really curious though, Sib. Do tell us—how _is_ Cullen? Have you been servicing _your_ pet templar lately?"

"_Dorian,_" Jowan repeated, looking nervously between his friends.

"Fuck you, Surana," Sibyl whispered harshly, her teeth clenched.

"If there are any _feelings _involved here… then _you_ love _me_," he whispered back, leaning towards her, his eyes wide and sharp and blank.

She couldn't look at him. Instead, she bit down on her lower lip and tried to will herself to be angry. All she felt instead was a deep, sinking sensation that plunged from her chest into the pit of her belly, making her sick with nausea. She found no response for him, and mercifully he didn't say a word when she ducked her head, almost in shame, and stood up.

The scrape of her chair against the floor was deafening against the room's silence. Dorian watched passively—and Jowan in mild dismay—as she slammed the tome she had been looking through shut with a dull _thud _and tossed it carelessly into a nearby stack. She could feel his eyes on her as she turned brusquely to leave, following her even as she rounded the corner and slipped out of sight.

She imagined that Jowan would hiss at him that he'd been an arse, or tell him he shouldn't have brought Cullen up like that. It wasn't her fault Cullen was infatuated with her, and it didn't make her like _him._

But it didn't matter what Jowan said. She thought she could still feel Dorian's gaze burning into her even as she fell into her bed and pulled the covers up over her head.

_You love_ _me._

_

* * *

_

"So why are you doing this?" the apprentice asked, reclining lazily on the bed, watching the templar as he carefully put on his plate armor. "I know I'm irresistible and everything, but even most of the other apprentices I sleep with move on after awhile."

The templar didn't answer as he snapped the pieces into place; first cuisses and greaves on his legs, then the thick purple robes and breastplate, followed by the pieces for his arms—pauldrons, vambraces, the apprentice could never remember all the names, no matter how many times he watched them come on and off—and finally the gauntlets. When he could delay no longer, the templar turned to look at the younger man, an elf, wearing his usual self-satisfied smirk and little else.

"Put your robes back on, will you? We'll be in enough trouble if someone finds us in here and you're _not_ stark naked on my bed," he said.

"All the _shame_ you templars deal with," the elf said with a dismissive laugh, but he sat up and grabbed his robes from the pile on the ground where they had been thrown earlier. "I don't understand it. Is there anything fun that you don't disapprove of? Isn't there anything you would rather be doing, other than guarding a bunch of degenerate mage-children, day in and day out?"

"What the templars do is important, mage, and you'd do well not to forget it," he snapped in response, turning away as the elf stood to put on his robes.

"Don't bother to get all _righteous _with me, Drass," the apprentice said dryly, and Drass winced at the sound. No matter what he did, he could never seem to avoid the other man's taunting. One would think that he would _remember _that this was how it always ended, and that he could then control himself. But the Knight-Commander was continually disappointed in him and his faltering devotion to his duties, so it should have come as no surprise that he would keep finding himself here, in this situation with this apprentice, time after time. Always he hoped that for once he would be spared the sort of vindictive pillow talk that only a mage could dream up for a templar—but the Maker would never leave him unpunished for his sins.

"I know there's a reason you keep coming back, why you keep breaking your vows," the apprentice said, his voice low.

"It's because I am _weak. _Mages like _you_ are the reason we need templars, people with iron wills," Drass answered through gritted teeth, keeping his back to the elf. "Andraste preserve me."

The apprentice laughed, warmly, as if he had just been presented with a fine compliment by an old friend. He quickly stepped around the templar to stand in front of him, giving him only a brief glance before picking up a vial of lyrium from the nearby nightstand, a devious smile spreading across his face.

"It's a funny thing, isn't it?" he said slowly, turning the vial between his fingers and studying the blue liquid within. "The Chantry teaches templars to be strong, to be able to withstand all manner of unspeakable horrors at the hands of blood mages, and they reward you for all your hard work with sweet, _glorious_ lyrium… except… wait, I forgot. What happens when a templar is cut off from his supply, again? I hear lyrium withdrawal is a truly dreadful sight to behold… let alone _experience…_"

"Templars need lyrium to hone our powers," Drass said coldly. "Power that we use to keep _your _kind in line. You know that."

"That's what they say," the apprentice agreed solemnly, his eyes flicking from the vial to meet with Drass's. The templar's first instinct was to look away, to protect himself from the gaze that had reeled him into situations he so often found himself unable to resist—but this time, he steeled his will and forced himself to meet the other man's eyes unwaveringly. "They say you _need_ the lyrium, just like they tell me that _I _need templars to protect me from the world and the world from me. But you know the truth. We're both prisoners, here."

"I am proud to serve the Maker," Drass answered tersely, as if by rote.

"And I'm proud to lead his followers astray," the apprentice went on. "But I want to know _why_ you are so eager to be _taken_."

Drass flinched. "If you think we are so similar, then perhaps you already know."

"Oh, I doubt we get the same satisfaction out of this… arrangement," the apprentice said, and Drass worked hard to ignore that coy smirk that always somehow managed to slip past his defenses. "You try far too hard to be noble to get any pleasure out of… destroying my innocence, or whatever—not that I had any to begin with. What is it that you _want?_ What is that unobtainable thing that you are _longing_ for… that the Chantry stole from you by keeping you here?"

When Drass only continued to stare at him, stoic and resolute in his full set of templar plate, the apprentice sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Come on. You already know what they took from me. You can tell me. I keep all your other dirty little secrets," he said shrewdly. "Maker, I _am _one."

The apprentice's eyes remained fixed on the templar as he spoke. His expression was entirely free of any inhibition or hesitance, and maybe even contained just a hint of sympathy and understanding; it was that mix of confidence that Drass could not help feeling drawn to. The elf was much shorter, entirely dwarfed by the larger man's looming figure, but he seemed the more powerful regardless, with the way the templar now regarded him, uncertain.

"I don't want to be alone," Drass finally admitted, his voice ragged. Suddenly, he seemed much less imposing despite all his armor.

"Then why should you be?" the apprentice asked, that smile and its familiar tinge of smugness blooming across his face once again. "How could you be alone when you're caught in a scandal like this?"

"I will always be alone, _because_ of this!"

"I suppose I don't exist, then, and you're having this sordid little affair with yourself."

Drass didn't know if he still saw that tiny glimmer of sympathy in the apprentice's eyes, or simply _wanted _to. Either way, he was moving almost beyond his own control as he grabbed the elf, forcefully, and heard his sharp, surprised intake of breath. For a long moment, the templar glared at him fiercely, and the apprentice could only watch him—finally speechless, fully aware of how powerless he was in this position.

Then Drass dipped his head to the apprentice's level and their lips met, both rough and uncertain. His kiss was still clumsy and inexperienced, made awkward by their position and all of Drass's armor, but the apprentice leaned into it nonetheless, reaching up to twine his fingers into the templar's hair and urge him closer. He always seemed to enjoy this immeasurably more than kissing any of the other apprentices he'd been with, and the fact that these kisses always tasted like _victory_ certainly helped.

Every vow broken, every secret revealed, every weakness exposed was another point in his favor, further proof that a mage could win the upper-hand. At least for this moment, with this templar, he could blur the borders between who was the captor and who was the confined.

The way the templar shook once he broke their kiss and pulled away, as if he had lost himself so completely, was downright dizzying. The apprentice's head buzzed, a delicious drunken spin, better than all the lyrium in the world. Better than all the sex he could have had in dark corners with any of his fellow apprentices, imprisoned just as he was. _This_ was what the templars must feel—he was sure it was—as they stood over a defenseless mage caught by a demon in the Fade, in the moment just before they struck that final, killing blow.

Andraste's grace guide him and Holy Maker forgive him, but this was power. This was _control._

He pulled back from Drass slowly, reveling in the intoxication of knowing he was winning. The smile on his face had subtly deepened into something far worse than smugness.

"But I suppose it's true, that you're alone, despite me being here. There's really no telling how long our little fling will last," he said idly and gazed up at the templar through long eyelashes. "You can still keep coming back, of course. But when I said most of the other people I've slept with moved on, I really meant that _I _got bored."

Drass snorted and took a few steps away as his shame began to rush back, a torturous flame that once kindled, he could never entirely extinguish.

"Do you truly think that this shameless, belligerent _whore_ thing that you do is attractive, mage?" he growled.

The apprentice grinned, leaning back against the wall casually. "You seem to think so."

He should have expected this, of course. There was a reason this apprentice kept his secrets, and it wasn't out of _companionship_. It was more as if he was a new brand of demon, one that fed specifically on the darkness that preyed on the souls of templars, manipulating and toying with them until they finally broke and bent to his will. Drass's fists clenched instinctively, prickling with the impulse to Smite.

"I know you won't get bored with me, Surana," Drass said hoarsely, taking a deep breath and ducking his head as he turned away. He quickly slipped on his helmet in a fluid movement and was at the door with fingers wrapped around the handle before the other man could respond.

He had to remind him who was the templar and who was the mage here. Who was _rightfully _in control_._

"Because I do already know what _you _get out of this," the templar continued, calling on all his willpower to keep his voice steady. "As long as you're a mage, you will never get bored of me or leave me. You will never report my misconduct to the Knight-Commander no matter how angry I make you—you _need_ me so you can keep fooling yourself into thinking we haven't got you trapped in this Tower so tightly that you won't see the light of day up close for as long as you live."

The vial of lyrium connected with the door as soon as Drass slammed it shut behind him, glass shattering and skittering about the room, the thin blue liquid slowly spreading across the floor. Dorian let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting in a heap among broken glass, choking back bitter sobs of frustration.

* * *

**Short update, both because **'**Envy' was too long to post all in one go, and because I'm trying to keep ahead in the parts I have finished before I post the next bit, but school is interfering with my writing time (yikes.) The rest is forthcoming, though! Next update will be about what's going on with Cullen. And yes… if you've read the codex, then you can guess who Templar Drass is. Shh. ;)**


	3. Envy, part 2

**Sorry that this update is so late and short. It's the last of my fully finished chapters, so I'm afraid the next update might take awhile, too – I know exactly what happens in this story, it's just a matter of getting it all down and mapped out in a coherent manner. Don't worry, though—it will all come together eventually, I promise!**

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* * *

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**III. ENVY, pt 2**

Cullen was becoming more and more of a problem.

Some of the templars were clearly Chantry boys: the ones who had been given to the Chantry as very young children and hardly knew anything outside of the world of the abbey. Cullen was certainly one of these—shy, polite, dedicated but naïve, and _very _pious. He hadn't been posted in the Tower very long... in fact, he hadn't even stood through a Harrowing as anything other than an observer yet.

Despite that, he was also one of the kinder templars who would actually speak with the mages and apprentices as if they were _people_ and seemed to think that maybe the Chantry was too harsh with some of its rules. He was also hardly any older than a just-Harrowed mage himself, and handsome—more than a few women had crushes on him. But he was largely oblivious to the fact that apprentice girls seemed to get improbably clumsy around him, dropping books and quills and anything else they were holding so they could either smile at him and bat their eyelashes as he picked the item up… or so they could strategically bend over in front of him and pick it up themselves.

Dorian found the whole situation appalling. As far as he was concerned, there was absolutely nothing even slightly interesting about Cullen, and watching apprentices fall all over themselves for a _templar _of all things made him want to retch. It seemed like the horrific result of too many of those raunchy romance novels about knights-in-shining-armor and young girls with heaving bosoms mixing with a bad case of Stockholm syndrome.

As far as he was concerned, Cullen was just another bumbling, Chantry-brainwashed hulk standing about in a suit of armor and a stupid purple skirt while trying to look important.

Cullen, in all his awkward-but-handsome, naïve-and-guileless glory, presented only one opportunity and it was being laid to waste. Everyone in the Tower _knew _that Cullen was infatuated with Sibyl, and everyone in the Tower _knew _that Sibyl actually considered him a _friend_. Dorian wasn't sure why, but that especially made him gag whenever he considered it too carefully. Just the thought of Cullen and Sibyl Amell, standing about and chatting away… _Maker_. He had caught them outside the First Enchanter's office once—Sibyl had no reason to be there except to visit Cullen's post, he was sure—and she had been _laughing. _There had been this glorious, bright smile on her face, really genuine; her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she hadn't even reached up to cover her mouth with her hand… she always did that when she laughed particularly hard, and she'd confided in him once that it was because she thought her lips were too wide, making her smile just a bit lopsided…

He used to tease her about it, mostly because it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. _Cullen_ probably told her that her lips were perfect—the fucking pathetic sod. It wasn't as if the Noblest and Most Virtuous Ser Cullen would ever do anything as improper as _kiss a girl, _so what did he care about her lips?

Dorian wouldn't have minded it if only Sibyl wasn't so damn gracious all the time, indulging him without any intention of making a move despite her perfect opening. Instead, she called him _cute. _Or _sweet. _Apparently, to be cute, one need only follow a girl around like a wide-eyed, floppy-eared lost puppy. He would have filed that information away and passed it on to the next apprentice he encountered who was pining away about getting the attention of some girl or other, if it didn't make him so bleeding angry.

Really. He would have expected Sibyl, at least, to have more sense. To fall for someone who actually _knew_ her, and not some dumb brute who was charged with keeping her from escaping or plunging a sword of mercy through her heart should she suddenly burst open and start spewing demons. Didn't that just stink of dysfunction? Wasn't she always lecturing him about how dysfunctional _he_ was? At least he _knew _he was being spiteful and that his taste for radical power disparity in his relationships was probably unhealthy. She wouldn't even admit that she clearly had a few of the same leanings, if she really liked Cullen so much.

Her little "friendship" with Cullen was just as screwed up as his relationship with Drass, in its own way. At least _Dorian_ didn't spend his time giggling in corners with Drass (they reserved corners for other activities). At least he reserved his emotional intimacy for people who were—

At least he didn't care about Drass, or what would happen if the Knight-Commander found out about them, was the point. Sibyl cared about Cullen. That was a weakness. It could only end badly.

Unless he could find a way to _make _it end before it had a chance to go bad. He and Sibyl had been friends forever. He wouldn't enjoy seeing her get burned.

* * *

Sibyl usually tried to avoid running into Cullen while she was with Dorian. In fact, she was _meticulous _about it. There just wasn't any way that such a situation could end _well,_ so it was best to circumvent it completely.

But templars weren't assigned to guarding the same post indefinitely; they would probably go mad if they were. Posts rotated regularly, so some days she could find Cullen on the second floor guarding the mage quarters, other times on post in the library, and some days… some days she was unlucky enough to run into him while he was en route somewhere else, and she was on her way to the Great Hall with Dorian. Days like today.

She had told him not to talk to her while she was with Dorian, for his own good, really, and he had agreed—but Maker's breath, who knew a templar could be so damn _clumsy?_

Cullen nearly knocked her over as they passed each other, probably because he was keeping his head so far down and blushing so furiously he had no idea where he was going. So busy trying to remind himself not to make eye contact or greet her with a friendly smile, that he practically forgot to look right in front of him and clipped her quite hard with one of his pauldrons.

Dorian caught her as she stumbled and cursed under his breath, shooting Cullen a dirty look. She rubbed her shoulder, wincing with pain, but the collision hadn't caused anything more serious than a light bruising.

"Maker, f-forgive me. I'm so sorry… I haven't hurt you, have I?" Cullen said, reaching out to touch her, as if to check her for bruising, but Dorian pulled her away and blocked his path.

"Move along, would you?" he said, with practically a mouthful of spite. "Perhaps a few extra hours in the practice yards this afternoon to sharpen your reflexes. Who knew the Chantry emplyed templars incapable of even walking down a hallway without hurting mages? Or did that extra talent endear them to you?"

"I'm fine, Cullen," Sibyl said with a strained smile, pushing Dorian away from her. "No harm done."

"I'm glad," the templar said breathlessly, beaming in relief. "I'm really very sorry, I don't know how I didn't see—well. As long as you're not hurt, that's all that matters. I—I'm not sure what I'd do if I'd hurt you."

"Well, I'm fine, really," Sibyl assured him, returning his smile. Beside her, Dorian's sour glare was softening into a sort of intrigued grin as he watched them. "I don't want to keep you from your duties on my count."

"Oh, it's no trouble! I promise! But uh… if you're really all right, then… I'll see you later, I suppose," Cullen said awkwardly. He flushed slightly, his eyes hopeful. "Won't I?"

"Of course," she answered, with a blush of her own that she could do nothing to hide. Cullen nodded to her, shyly, and turned to walk briskly away. Dorian stared after him, looking both floored and ecstatic.

Once the templar had safely made it a few paces in the other direction, Sibyl turned back to Dorian and yanked him further down the hall by his arm in an effort to get him to stop staring at the other man with that evil, predatory grin of his—like a shark who'd caught the scent of blood in the water, _Maker's breath_—and follow her.

"Everyone says he fancies you—but he doesn't just _fancy _you, Sib!" he had hissed as he let himself be dragged down the hall. "He very nearly _worships _you!"

"Really? Does he? Did your fabled powers of sensitivity tell you that?" she had shot back, the irritation smoldering under her skin. It was hardly a secret to anyone who spoke to Cullen and so much as sneezed in a way that sounded like "Sibyl Amell" that he was infatuated. And she _liked _him. She knew what Dorian was thinking and she couldn't imagine doing… what he was doing to Drass, to Cullen. Ever.

"Sibyl," he said, his face flushed with excitement. "He's farther gone than I thought. You have been handed a precious, precious gift by the Maker Himself. You cannot pass this up."

"Pass what up?" she snapped. "The chance to ruin a man's life? The chance to turn an uncorrupted, innocent person into a cynical, self-loathing carbon copy of _you?"_

_ "_There are worse fates in the world than being me," Dorian said reasonably. "For example, _not _being me. There is nothing wrong with being me! What are you implying? That I'm evil?"

"You're giving yourself too much credit. You'd only be evil's second cousin, at best," she said irritably.

"Unfair, and I resent you calling me self-loathing. That is a gross mischaracterization," he continued with a wave of his hand. "You, however, keep putting up with me despite that… pinched look you get whenever I talk—like right now. Perhaps _you_ are the self-loathing one?"

"We are not having this conversation. Not now. Not in this hallway," she snapped again, mentally trying to relax her face, in case she really did look _pinched._ She wouldn't eliminate the possibility. She certainly felt a little bit like something invisible that hated her was trying to crush her skull.

"Shall we relocate to a more discreet hallway, then? I know a few good ones," he asked, taking her hand in his before stopping midstride, ensuring she couldn't simply walk away from him.

"We shall _not,_" she said forcefully, pulling away and taking a step back to keep her distance. "And you will _not_ talk to me about Cullen if it's to convince to me to use him for… whatever awful reason you've justified your behavior with inside your head. Not all of us are manipulative bastards who see weakness in the simplest display of friendliness!"

"Andraste's holy arse," he breathed out in disbelief. "You really do like him, don't you?"

"Sod it, why can't you just—"

"No! _You like him,_" Dorian repeated, but she wasn't sure if it was in delight or hysteria. "You really like him. Maker. You surprise me every day."

"Only you would be surprised by _affection_," she told him bitterly.

He shook his head, his expression unreadable as he took two steps forward to her one back, until she was pushed up against the stone wall. She swallowed nervously, looking over his shoulder, trying to make eye contact with one of the people passing in either direction. Surely _someone_ would rescue her.

He was looking at her now with set determination. Tenderly—with a delicacy she hadn't known he possessed, he cupped her chin and gently tilted her head so their eyes were level with each other. She stubbornly made certain to look everywhere other than his face.

"Come on," he murmured. "Certainly you don't think there's _no one _I like."

"I have considered the possibility," she answered. He chuckled softly, tilting his head slightly to the right as he watched her intently. She gasped as his hands slid down and caught her by her upper arms, pressing her firmly into the wall behind her. "Dorian…"

Then she made the mistake of looking back at him, into his eyes. She could feel his breath hitch, and for some reason she couldn't explain, his brash confidence almost seemed to waver. It was her one chance to run, and she missed it because she was all too curious exactly _what_ he was seeing in her that made him falter.

But the moment passed almost as quickly as it had come, and she would never get the chance to make him explain because he was suddenly pressing his lips to hers without any trace of hesitance or self-doubt. He was all insistence and cool self-assurance, crushing their bodies together as if this all made sense, as if it was perfectly normal to be kissing her like this in the middle of a busy hallway.

Some tiny part of her wanted to give into the illusion that he was creating for her, that this was all so _right _and she should just accept it. When hands that had at first been trying to defiantly push him away relaxed and settled on his hips, he took it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. His grip on her loosened and he raised one hand to run his fingers through her hair.

It only took one more second—maybe two—before she was able to wrench herself away, giving him a good shove in the process. He stumbled back, almost knocking into a confused passerby, and he steadied himself by leaning against the wall, keeping her pinned.

For a fleeting moment, the look on his face was unusually bright, alive, _full. _She closed her eyes to block it out.

"This isn't happening—you… me," she said, panting. He gave her an utterly disbelieving look—_Of course this is happening, look at us_—and she managed to shift just enough, move her head just in time, so his next attempt to kiss her landed on her cheek. He pulled away then, breathing heavily, the darkness creeping back into him.

And _that_ was why.

"I said no," she whispered, shuffling to the side and extracting herself from him. The further she got, the clearer her head felt and the more she could tell herself she was making the right choice. "What do you think you're doing?"

_I think I don't want you to get hurt, _he thought, wildly, a rush of feelings swirling through his head as he questioned exactly what reason he had to think that _he _was any less unhealthy for her than Cullen was. Sibyl had said herself that everyone he slept with was depressed—it wasn't far from true, though he liked to think it was more of a coincidence than something he _caused._

Aloud, he said nothing, his eyes glinting with defiance as he continued to watch her, his breath ragged, hands balled into fists, shoulders back. A defensive stance.

Her expression was already beginning to soften as she spoke again.

"You're right, you know. I love you. But I won't be a pawn in one of your games," she told him, her voice gentle, sad, almost _pitying. _Sibyl knew better than to pity him openly, but he could see it there under everything else nonetheless. He bit down on his lip, hard, anger swelling in his chest.

This time, it was he who walked away, and she who watched.

* * *

She expected some kind of retaliation, an upheaval in their friendship. Dorian Surana did not back down. He did not lay back and swallow rejection when it was served to him. He fought everyone, every_thing,_ to get what he wanted despite any and all odds against him. It was just what made him who he was.

After the kiss, they had not spoken for the rest of the day. She had retreated to a back corner of the apprentice classrooms with her books, as was her habit, and the only time she saw him was when he passed through late in the evening on his way to the dormitories.

He hadn't waved or acknowledged her as he usually would, but then again, it was dark. It was possible he hadn't seen her. Except he knew what she did and where she always went when she was… unsettled.

Just as she knew where he went and what _he_ did. She imagined that the templars on watch near any area of the Tower that even remotely qualified as isolated had had quite an afternoon chasing away him and whoever he was currently off… fraternizing with these days. Probably still that horrible blonde, although he might have persuaded one of the more adventurous younger apprentices to accompany him if he had been feeling particularly sleazy.

Thinking of that strawberry-blonde only amplified her sour mood. It didn't seem fair, after all. Dorian's antics and grand acts of rebellion had all been much more harmless before _she_ had set him off. He had just been a bit restless before _she _put all those ideas about templars and taking risks in his head… before she pulled him into her dark little world so she could have some company as she suffocated in her misery.

The bitch had ruined him for anyone _normal_ who wanted to take an interest in him. It was she that had turned him onto this wild streak of his, and it was _her _fault that he had… done what he did in the hallway… in the way that he did… for the _reasons_ that he had.

Maker. It wasn't like she'd never been kissed before. There was no reason for her to be this shaken up over something so silly. She just hadn't wanted him to kiss her as part of Andraste only knew what kind of awful scheme he was brewing to victimize Cullen. Because she couldn't consent to partake in that, no matter what else she may have wanted…

Really, it wasn't fair.

Sibyl made her way to the Great Hall earlier than usual the following morning, anticipating that Jowan and Dorian would laze in together sometime later as they normally did. This gave her time to steel herself for whatever scene he had planned upon his entrance. She was sure he had spent the night dreaming up some elaborate way to humiliate her in retribution for refusing him, some convoluted plan on how to execute the dissolution of their entire friendship—a lifetime of closeness ruined, mostly because of that bitch's meddling.

Except… his scheme to exact payback apparently began with him being disturbingly reasonable.

He and Jowan entered the Great Hall not too long after she had, with a few other boys from their age group, and they both came to sit across from her just as they always did. Except for his hair seeming a bit more unruly than it was most mornings, Dorian seemed like his normal self. He even gave her a bright smile before he took his first sip from his mug of hot tea, while most mornings he was hard-pressed to do anything other than communicate in bleary-eyed grimaces before breakfast was finished.

"Someone's in a lovely mood today," Jowan observed. "What awful thing are you planning now?"

"Nothing," Dorian said calmly, taking a sip of his tea. "I just have a good feeling about this morning."

"You hate mornings," Jowan said flatly. "You're planning something. You never tell me what you're planning."

"I'm hurt," he answered, reaching for the tub of sugar cubes in the center of the table and taking two. "I always include you in my wicked plans, Jowan. You're my most trustworthy partner in crime."

Jowan sighed and shook his head before turning his attention to picking out the warmest, fluffiest roll he could find. "That doesn't mean you _tell_ me what you're planning before I find out that I'm included and get dragged along for the ride."

"So picky," Dorian scolded playfully. "But I promise, today's your day off."

"Really?" Sibyl piped in cautiously, and as soon as she spoke his eyes flicked to her. She hesitated for a moment as they made eye contact and he gave her a modest smile over the rim of his teacup. He just seemed so… innocent. It was disarming. "There are no hard feelings? You're okay with… things?"

"Excuse me? All I recall is being told someone didn't want to play my game," he said, leaning towards her just slightly. Calm eyes glinted with amusement. "Should I be terribly upset over the loss of a pawn?"

She drew away from him as if burned.

"Sorry. Us emotionally normal people tend to feel upset when we are _rejected_," she said defensively. "But sometimes I forget that you were born Tranquil."

He tsked at her, his smile agreeable and unbothered. As nonchalantly as he could, he turned to Jowan. "And this is how she feels about a _pawn. _Remind me never to play chess with her. She would probably mind blast me as soon as her King was in check."

"Whatever this is, I am staying out of it," Jowan said sensibly.

Dorian sighed and gave her a shrug so casual it was maddening. He was supposed to be _upset, _or at least hiding some sort of distress in his usual surly, roundabout way. But this was just so… typical of him.

"Bite me, both of you," she spat, rising abruptly. Dorian raised his eyebrows, as if he was only vaguely interested in her actions, and lifted his cup to his lips once again. She let out an exasperated grunt as she whirled away and stormed out of the Great Hall. Jowan, at least, stared after her in concerned bewilderment. Dorian sat serenely beside him, eyes closed as he continued to sip his tea.

Storming out on conversations was becoming all too regular an occurrence for them these days. She was usually a firm believer that avoidance was no way to handle your issues, but Maker's _breath _he was infuriating. Somehow, even as she tried to be _sensitive _to whatever was going on inside his impossible-to-fathom head_, _he still managed to pick at her most volatile emotions and yank them to the surface.

It wasn't fair. He hated losing. This should have mattered to him at least on some level. Why wasn't he even the least bit out of sorts, or even just the tiniest bit defensive?

_She_ had pushed _him_ away, after all. Why wasn't he the one feeling hurt?

It wasn't _fair._


	4. What Pride Wrought, part 1

**A/N: So I'm back! Finally! I know it's been ages. (School is hard! Writer's block is harder!) Hopefully I should be back with fairly regular updates now *crosses fingers***

**I also had to make a few decisions about how far this fic would delve into area covered by the fic it prequels, Questions. Because it's relevant and sometimes unavoidable, and back when I wrote that fic I hadn't had this Surana fleshed out as a character much past a plot device to annoy Zevran with. So chances are, some things in coming chapters will be familiar. I'm curious as to if anyone has any opinions on how much more I should revisit events of that fic (great idea? Horrible idea?)—let me know if you do!**

**As always I'm eternally grateful for all reviews, constructive criticism, and input of all kinds so thanks again to reviewers! You guys are the best :)**

**Anyway, that's the state of the story. But enough tl;dr wall-of-text! Onto the latest installment, it's a long one:**

* * *

**IV. WHAT PRIDE WROUGHT**

_And as the black clouds came upon them,_

_They looked on what pride had wrought,_

_And despaired._

**-Threnodies 7:10**

**Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, 9:30 Dragon**

She knew that her simmering anger was only empowering him.

The longer she allowed herself to be affected by his disaffection, the more she played into his desires. He _wanted_ her to be the one to feel the loss, the rejection, so he wouldn't have to.

It was obvious, really. He took joy in his power to control the people around him.

Her only choice was to pretend that she didn't care, either.

* * *

So maybe he had been wrong, and that particular plan to steal her away from Cullen had been misguided. That was… fine. There were other methods he could employ to gain the same end result.

Several other methods, in fact—some more entertaining than others, but at least one of them would still be effective. If he couldn't take Sibyl away from Cullen, he would just have to remove Cullen from the picture entirely.

Or better yet, convince Cullen to remove himself.

Luckily, he had spent the past nineteen-odd years perfecting the art of manipulating templars. If bedding Drass was a first testament to the depth of his skill, what he was about to do to Cullen was going to be his magnum opus, the most exhilarating gamble with the highest stakes yet: Sibyl Amell.

He couldn't wait.

* * *

Sibyl had been given a Harrowing date.

One morning at breakfast, she had been quietly reading one of her books while sipping a cup of tea, blissfully ignoring Dorian and Jowan as they argued over whether or not the flowers Jowan had collected from one of the Tower's herb gardens were a proper gift for a girl—Dorian was insisting it was _tacky,_ while Jowan argued that they were _pretty_, and he had gotten them to show he liked her, and that should be all that mattered.

"You're going to give a girl something you picked on the side during _lessons _while Enchanter Ines was breathing down your neck? The romance—I can truly feel it—" Dorian sighed, shrugging, and stirred the bowl of porridge in front of him without really sparing it a glance. "There is a reason, my friend, that I am the one with the reputation and not you."

"Yeah, I suppose there is a reason for that," Jowan agreed darkly, with a slightly offended snort. "I don't think we're looking for the same kind of thing in a relationship. Or even the same kind of girl."

"Mm, but how do you think I do it?" Dorian asked. "You still have to say the right things at the right time, have an eye for gifts that aren't just _generic,_ that she'll really like, and _then—_"

"Maker, I don't need Dorian Surana's Formula for Seducing Women, thanks!" Jowan shouted, his cheeks flushing, but he tossed the bouquet of collected flowers under the table and kicked them away in resignation nonetheless. Dorian shrugged at him again—his loss—and ate a spoonful of porridge.

Sibyl turned another page in her book, making no comment to either of them.

"Miss Amell?"

Their teacher had approached them from the section of the Great Hall where the enchanters ate. She was standing beside her now, looking down at her expectantly.

"Yes, Enchanter Deidre?"

"I just came to congratulate you. You needn't report to lessons this morning, because your Harrowing date has been set for three weeks from today! If you have any questions at all, or would like any guidance in your preparations, you can ask me anytime," Enchanter Deidre said, her smile bright. Sibyl paused, her hand frozen mid-reach for her cup of tea, and she gaped up at the enchanter in surprise. There had been talk of 'your upcoming Harrowing' to all of them for months now, but she still hadn't expected a date to be chosen quite so soon. No one else in her age group had been approached yet—she was the very first.

"Don't look so shocked, I know you'll do brilliantly, child," Deidre continued, beaming. "You always make us all so proud."

Across the table, Dorian made an unsubtle gagging noise, and smiled innocently back at Deidre when she turned to look at him. "Just as you make us proud in your own way, Dorian—so laugh it up," she said with a hint of amused satisfaction at the look of semi-shock the compliment put on his face. "I'll see you and Jowan both after breakfast."

"Wait, what, no Harrowing for me?" he pouted. "I guess I don't make you _that _proud. And I was so in the _mood_ to face unspeakable horrors and possible death today. You never let me do anything fun."

She smiled at him, her tight-lipped smile of _tolerance_ that she had learned over the years was the most effective tactic for diffusing his sarcasm. "Don't worry, your time too will come," she said, and bid them all goodbye before he had a chance to make any further remarks.

"Our Sib's going to be a Harrowed mage," he said wistfully, looking to Jowan. "Now what shall I do in class, with no one to compete with?"

"Perhaps your lessons," Sibyl suggested demurely, her eyes once again glued to her book.

"Never any fun," he repeated, returning to stirring his porridge with marked disinterest.

* * *

And, true to his suspicion, lessons began with a _review._

And not only a review, but a review of the primal spells—with Sibyl as the first of their age group to get her Harrowing, Enchanter Deidre said that it was time for the rest of them to practice a few simple offensive spells, because you could never start preparing too early. She divvied her students into groups of three and assigned them to take turns practicing the flame blast spell.

Denri was the apprentice who she assigned to work with Dorian and Jowan, a tall and stocky human boy with copper-colored hair and a surly expression—though that last was most likely because he was being forced to leave his regular practice group of his two best friends, Daarci and Mand. Enchanter Deidre was hoping that with a new third party present, Dorian would still have at least one person who would object to any trouble he might try to make.

But Denri seemed disinclined to do much more than stare sullenly at Dorian, his arms crossed.

As much as his quip that he would have nothing to do without Sibyl to vie against was meant to be glib, Dorian quickly found it also held a grain of truth. Even though she had always griped to him that their lessons weren't meant to be competitions, his constant need to best her had always pushed them both to work harder than they ever would have pitted against the rest of their peers.

And whilst Sibyl might have found the way which Dorian tended to shoot flames across the practice area with bored nonchalance, as if it was his second nature, a little bit annoying and a good reason to put him in his place with a show of her _own_ skill, Denri thought he was just being willfully arrogant.

Which, to be fair, he _was_.

Denri rolled his eyes as Dorian flicked his wrists casually, muttering the incantation under his breath, a perfectly controlled burst of flame flowing forth a few feet in front of him. Enchanter Deidre nodded to him with a quick smile of encouragement which he returned with a shrug, and waved Denri forward for his turn.

The other boy stepped forward with something of a grumble, still put out about being separated from his regular companions. Denri's flame blast was executed with precision, but his flames reached maybe a little bit shorter of a distance than Dorian's had.

"Great progress, Denri," the enchanter said, but he could see Dorian grinning smugly from behind her. "Just throw a little more power into it, and you'll be perfect."

She swept away to monitor the next group, and once she was out of earshot, Denri leant forward, giving Dorian a steely glare. "I could throw _much_ more power into it than that, than _you, _if she'd let me."

"Of course." Dorian's grin had faded, but even when calm and impassive, the smugness hadn't entirely left his expression. Jowan looked uneasy, always the canary in the coal mine of Dorian's moods.

"You wouldn't _believe _it_._"

"You bet I wouldn't," Dorian said, with a quick exhale that might have been a laugh. Denri's expression hardened. He had been notorious while they were growing up for his quick temper, though he and Dorian had never had any real altercations before. And there was no reason to start _now._

"Come on," Jowan began slowly, looking pleadingly to Denri instead of his friend. "You don't need to…"

A roar of flames erupted a few feet away, interrupting his thought.

"Maker's breath!" Enchanter Deidre's voice pierced the air of the room, and all three boys turned to look at the commotion. She was bent over at Mand's side, and Denri instinctively jerked forward to see what had happened to his friend, but Deidre threw out a hand to keep both him and Daarci back. Mand was on his knees, gripping his left forearm so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. Both of his hands were pink and peeling from burns, and there was blood running down to his elbows. "How did you _cut_ yourself, boy?"

Mand, who until that moment had been breathing through clenched teeth, let out an ear-splitting scream in response, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

"He just—I don't know how it happened, Enchanter," Daarci filled in breathlessly. "One second, he was saying the incantations, and the next—blood, and burns—I guess he wasn't being careful—"

"Don't tell me what's obvious, girl!" Deidre snapped, uncapping a bottled healing potion. She pressed it to Mand's lips and, gasping, he drank. The burns on his hands began to close up, though they wouldn't seem to heal completely, and he was still bleeding and whimpering.

At Jowan's side, Denri shook his head, and said under his breath, "He hates blood, you know? It's ironic."

Enchanter Deidre helped him to his feet, though he seemed unsteady and placed a good portion of his weight on his teacher for support. "Hush, child, we'll get you to Enchanter Wynne and she'll patch you up in no time. The rest of you, no more practicing until I get back. I don't need anyone accidentally severing a limb and bleeding out while I'm gone."

She led him steadily but slowly out of the classroom, Mand hissing and whimpering in pain as they went. Denri settled down into a seat at the table, Daarci at his side.

"It was a stupid mistake," she said to him. "He shouldn't have tried that."

"That's the sort of stupid show I'd expect from _him_," Denri agreed, cocking his head back towards Dorian. Jowan sighed hopelessly and hid his face in his hands.

"I don't see _my_ hands bleeding profusely," Dorian pointed out pleasantly, studying them as if this was an intriguing observation. "Or maybe there's some new way of casting the spell you'd like to teach me, a far superior one that includes searing your own skin off."

Denri, Daarci, and even Jowan all glanced up at him at once. Denri broke out into a wide, lopsided smile, leaning towards him.

"Why are you being such a pain-in-the-arse today, I wonder?" Denri asked, just as pleasantly, but with the same sardonic glee. "Did you eat a few sour grapes at breakfast this morning? Since Sibyl's got her Harrowing date all set and ready, you feel like you have to prove you're still better than everyone else?"

Dorian fought the urge to glower, shrugging instead and flashing the boy a comfortable smile.

"Hardly. It's all a ploy. She's not a better mage, they're just trying to put me in my place. None of them want _me_ to have the bragging rights of being the youngest apprentice to attempt the Harrowing, after all," he said matter-of-factly.

"Sure, is that what you tell yourself?" Denri taunted. "You know, I hear you and she had a little falling out recently. How are you handling that?"

"Swimmingly." Dorian stiffened, both his hands pressed firmly to his sides, palms down, his eyes cold. "Make no mistake: Her against me, I win. Every time."

"Oh, _winning, _is that what you called it last week when she tested mana drain on you and you still couldn't so much as light a candle after curfew?" The other apprentice laughed and shook his head. "Was that _winning_ when she nearly knocked you over for kissing her in a crowded hallway? Or so I hear, anyway."

"I _let_ her," he said through gritted teeth. "It proves nothing."

Denri raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't it?"

Dorian's hands balled into fists, but his face remained calmly blank. "Tempest. She can't cast anything even close to that advanced. None of you can," he said evenly. It was a challenge. "I could take my Harrowing right now and be back before lunch, if they let me."

Denri scoffed in response. "A third-tier spell? Please. And where in the Tower would you even have the space to practice a spell like that? Templars hardly even let you look out the window on a _good_ day."

"He's right, you can't do Tempest," Daarci agreed, crossing her arms and regarding Dorian with an amused skepticism he had grown to expect over the years. He wasn't sure what it was—was it that he was an elf? Because he looked young, was a bit short, had a slight frame even for a mage? Or was he just _that_ outrageous? Whatever it was, he was used to being met with that same patronizing gaze. "That's too advanced. Apprentices aren't even allowed to attempt it."

"We're allowed to read," Dorian said. "It's simple in theory. Well—maybe not for _you. _Give me half a chance, and I'll show you."

"You couldn't do it given five hundred chances," Denri shot back. "It takes months of training and practice to master. You're going to do it first try?"

"Yeah. Right now, I will," the elf said boldly. "There's plenty of room here if we push the table out of the way and you all stand back. We do that, you concede I'm the best, and I'll show you a Tempest."

"You're absolutely on," Denri laughed. "It can't be done. Knock yourself out, Surana."

Sure, Denri had a point that it took months to _master_ the spell_, _but all he had to do was manage to cast it, and neither of them would know a well-crafted Tempest from Andraste's underclothes. He was reasonably confident he could do that much. The first time casting a new spell was always a bit rocky, but he was _good, _and he couldn't let Denri of all people question that.

He stepped forward, and leaned into the table, nudging it back a few inches, and then motioned for the rest of them to help him.

"This is probably your absolute worst idea yet," Jowan whispered to him. "Isn't Sibyl angry enough at you? Is this going to help, showing off like this?"

"I'm not showing off, I'm proving a point," Dorian answered, keeping his eyes on Denri. "And Sibyl always forgives me, anyway. Don't bring her into this. This has nothing to do with her."

"Sure, except for the whole 'I can prove I'm a better mage than Sibyl' thing," Jowan said. "I can't be caught like this again. We're not children, punishment isn't just lines and pot-scrubbing anymore."

"What are they going to do?" Dorian asked, turning to look at Jowan attentively, but with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Lock me up?"

Jowan faltered for a moment, but shook his head. "I'd rather not have my Harrowing postponed indefinitely because of your idea of thrill-seeking," he said. "I have _things_ to do, Dorian, there are _reasons—_"

"I'm sorry," the elf answered with a low snort of laughter. "Am I interfering with your _things_ and _reasons?_"

"Yes, actually," Jowan snapped. "Some of us care about how our lives and futures turn out—"

"Then leave," Dorian said sharply. "Go tell our enchanter to come stop me. Why stay? I'm not forcing you."

"You're… you're my friend."

Jowan's tone of voice made his words sound more like a reluctant admission than an explanation. Dorian laughed again, the same low, derisive sound, and he turned back to look at his challenger. "Then let's get to clearing the area, shall we? Jowan can be lookout and give us a yell if anyone's coming."

Jowan sighed deeply. Mechanically, he helped Denri and Daarci to push the table back up against the far bookcases, leaving most of the alcove cleared. He was beginning to repeat in his head that he was really only present in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to dissuade his friend from his current plan of action. Maybe, if he stayed here for five more minutes, he would come up with the right way to convince him to stop. That would be his story if—_when—_Dorian got caught.

He trudged grimly towards the far exit to take his post as lookout.

"First thing," Dorian began, pacing twice in the now open, empty space of the classroom. "I need a high vantage point. A place I can keep an eye on my work from."

He made a quick pass over the room, briefly considering and rejecting a few ideas—climbing a bookshelf (too unstable), sitting on the table (too low)—until his eyes fell on the old statue of Magus Gorvish at the head of the room. Excitedly, he clambered towards it and, after a moment of grappling to get a good footing, managed to hoist himself up onto its shoulders.

"Always knew old Gorvish would be good for something one day," he said brightly, smiling down at Denri and Daarci and the others, who stood in a huddle beyond the first row of bookshelves, watching him raptly. Even Jowan peeked back into the classrooms as not to miss whatever was coming next.

"Well, get on with it, then," Denri called up to him. "Give us a Tempest."

"Don't you pay attention in lessons?" Dorian asked flippantly. "You can't rush good magic."

Denri and Daarci exchanged skeptical looks as the elf raised his hands above his head, his eyes falling closed as he began to intone the incantations. The spell was long, longer than anything they had attempted in regular lessons so far, and Dorian's voice was little more than a low drone as he spoke. None of them were quite sure how long the spell was meant to go on for, or at what point they should start heckling him and suspecting that he was just having them all on, sitting on Magus Gorvish's shoulders and spouting gibberish. None of them would quite put it past him.

"Nothing's happening," Daarci whispered. "He's lost it."

Just as it was beginning to become nothing more than a dull background noise, Dorian's voice stopped, his arms settling gracefully in his lap. There was a beat of silence, and his eyes flew open.

The room was empty. Nothing _had_ happened.

Immediately, his eyebrows knitted together in not so much anger as disbelief.

"Real powerful spell you have there," Denri said, now with his own smugness. "Come on off it, Surana. _None_ of us are supposed to be able to cast a spell like that yet. Don't be—"

Just as Dorian opened his mouth to shout back his response, the first crackles of lightning began to shoot up from the floor, and even he was surprised. His attention shifted immediately back to the spell, and he could feel it drawing from his mana, building power and intensity. He took a deep breath, feeding the spell, urging it to expand.

And expand it did. The lightning came quicker, and more frequently, larger jolts that combined to form a dazzling show of light and sparks. He knew, from his reading, that at this point a mage should be able to cut off the storm's drain on his powers, and even move on to other spells—there had been mages _known_ for calling up blizzards and tempests and infernos all at once, wreaking havoc on battlefields from a great distance.

He thought he'd be lucky just to keep this one spell alive; intellectually, he imagined it couldn't be any different from casting another spell while maintaining an arcane shield, something he _had _done, but just the idea of having enough focus or willpower to maintain the tempest _and_ do anything else seemed… unfathomable. That he was incapable of executing exactly what he had read seemed almost like an insult, and he instead fed more mana into the storm, just to prove that he _could._

The tempest could only be described as _raging, _now, and the lightning had expanded into most of the open space, certain bolts reaching halfway up the tallest bookshelves. Sparks flew, and the stones of the ground turned black and charred as repeated bolts of lightning struck them. Purple, blue, and white shone and skittered through his vision, and truly, there was a beauty in it, a particular elegance, and he could _feel _it flowing out of him, part of him, only possible because of who he was. If he smiled, then, it was involuntary, and genuine, and _free._

"Maker's balls," Denri muttered. "He actually _did _it."

Dorian chuckled to himself, for a moment his hunger for competition and control satisfied, even as he began to sweat from the effort of keeping the spell in check. He was going to have to rein it in soon, because he could feel his mana beginning to ebb away, his hold on the spell becoming more and more tenuous as time went on.

"Dorian!" Jowan yelled from the across the room, and briefly, Dorian noted that he really was _horrible _at giving a warning that might not be overheard by half the Tower. "Dorian, stop it, quick! She's coming back!"

He realized, now far too late, that the texts he had read hadn't really addressed _making it stop. _It was a spell meant for destruction, meant to be used in open fields against numerous enemies, not the close quarters of a Circle Tower library for show. If he stopped monitoring it, the spell would die eventually for lack of mana, but not nearly in time to keep Deidre from catching him, and besides, then it would also be, well, _out of his control._

"Holy Andraste—!" Enchanter Deidre was at the door now, and she shoved past Jowan roughly, running towards where Dorian stood, but stopping short of the edge of the storm. "Control, Dorian! _Control _it! Everyone, get out—Jowan, don't you even _think_ of running off—"

Sheepishly, Jowan hung back near the edge of the door, the other apprentices huddled behind him in the next room to watch the showdown unfold.

"Don't let it grow anymore, keep a hold on it!" she shouted.

His forehead was slick with sweat, his hair sticking to the sides of his face as he bit down hard on his lower lip in concentration. He could feel the energy flowing through him, the white hot crackle of lightning in his veins, connecting him to his magic. But his reserves were waning fast, already over-extended from the start, and he could feel the magic slipping away from him like water through a sieve.

"Surana!"

He gasped, faltering, trying desperately to pull the tendrils of energy in, but they had finally slipped completely out of his grasp and he could no longer direct the path of their destruction. His shoulders slumped forward and he braced himself on the statue's head, gasping for breath. Wild-eyed and frantic, he looked to his enchanter. "I—I can't—"

His magic had gotten away from him. This hadn't happened since he was a child, first learning to control his spells. Even then, he had _always_ had strong control. Had she just distracted him? For a few moments there, he had felt so gloriously _powerful, _conducting the storm as if it was an extension of himself. And now, as the winds swept up stray books, the lightning singeing and igniting their fragile pages, it had descended so easily into untamed destruction.

"Foolish boy," she said, cursing. "You let it get away from you. Now you can only ride it out."

Enchanter Deidre began to cast spells to put out the few books that had caught flame after being struck by his lightning. The tendrils of electricity were still crackling enthusiastically, spreading fast towards him, attracted to the statue's height as unchecked lightning was wont to be. The electricity extended towards his position, each spindly bolt reaching out to him like the fingers of an otherworldly hand.

If he didn't move quickly, he would be caught in his own storm.

To his left, the door to the classrooms swung open, the hulking form a templar on the other side.

"Andraste," the templar breathed, dark eyes flashing as he took in the lightning storm wreaking havoc on the room beyond. "What have you done?"

Dorian didn't have the foresight to respond; any and all quips were caught in his throat, as he was too busy trying to sidle away from the approaching lightning. Unfortunately, there was really no good way to both keep holding onto Magus Gorvish _and_ avoid the storm without falling off of the statue completely. The templar was hardly waiting for an answer, in any case, and he wasted no time in striding forward, almost into the thick of the electricity.

Waves of blue energy erupted from where the templar stood, rattling the bookcases and tearing through the storm. The flashes of lightning flickered and died as they came into contact with his energy, and the backdraft of the effect felt like strong wind, and, already unsteady in his grip on the statue, Dorian found himself toppling down.

He hit the cold, hard ground with a dull thud, stars erupting in his vision that reminded him suspiciously of angry, twisting, flashing fingers.

"Andraste's tits," he groaned, his eyes squeezed shut. His head was throbbing. "Did you have to _Smite_ me?"

"Trust me, if I'd Smited you, you wouldn't be conscious right now." The voice was coming from directly above him and sounded oddly familiar. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see that the templar had knelt down by his side, and was looking down at him with concern. It was… _Drass._ It took almost as much willpower to keep his face blank as it had to cast the Tempest. "All I did was cleanse the area to counteract your spell. Maker's mercy, Dorian, you could have been killed. Do you understand now? Do you see that you _need_ templars to protect you from yourself?"

Dorian stared back up at him defiantly. "I was fine. Are you going to punish me, ser?"

Drass sighed deeply, his mouth set in a grim line, eyes weary. But he said nothing, and only reached out to touch Dorian's head, gingerly, clumsy with the weight of his gauntlets. The apprentice flinched at the contact.

"I won't give him the chance," Enchanter Deidre snapped. She stalked up to the pair from across the room and grasped Dorian firmly by the arm, pulling him unceremoniously to his feet. "You're going straight to the First Enchanter's office. This is _beyond_ unacceptable behavior!"

"Careful!" Drass said hastily, rising to his own feet. "He fell fairly hard, from high up—I'm sure he hit his head on the way down, he could be injured."

"Maybe it'll do him some good, getting his brains knocked around that skull of his," she said bitterly, dragging him forcefully along as Drass followed behind. Once they made it to the northern exit, they passed Jowan and she gave him a piercing glare. "You'd better come along, too, young man. I know a conspiracy when I see one."

Jowan sputtered in protest, but found himself unable to form any of the excuses he had been planning for this moment. He was always Dorian's right hand in the trouble they got into, even if it was only as lookout, and he often found himself dragged along once his friend was caught largely on principle. Anyway, someone had better follow Dorian to the First Enchanter's office and make sure he didn't say anything _stupid_, not that he had ever had much success in doing so before.

Dorian, with the enchanter still holding a death grip on his upper arm, caught Denri's gaze as they passed. "Was that enough of a Tempest for you?" he asked, his smile satisfied.

"Dorian, you could have _died,_" Denri said.

He laughed. "Me? Never."

What he didn't mention was that judging from the way he felt right now, it would be much longer than after curfew tonight until he would see his mana fully regenerated, unless someone decided to give him a nicely sized lyrium potion. He fully considered it worth it for the looks of bewildered surprise, the almost uneasy reverence, in the other apprentices' eyes.

Enchanter Deidre gave him another sharp yank and they started up the long staircase to the second floor as she launched into one of her famous lectures. It was undoubtedly intentional that she was loud enough for all of his classmates below to hear.

"And you're proud of yourself, aren't you? You think you're pretty special, don't you? That is quite a tricky spell, you might have noticed from the way you utterly botched it," she began. "Do you think displays like this will get you Harrowed faster? Had someone actually _needed_ you to cast a Tempest in a battle or a real-life situation, you would probably have wound up killing half your friends along with your enemies once you lost control. A talented mage who can't control himself is worse than worthless. So congratulations, Surana!"

"Well, thank you," he said, so cheerful it bordered on insubordinate. "I'll remember that for the next time I'm let out of the Tower to do something interesting, like fight in a battle, or participate in '_real life_.' And you even called me talented, too!"

"Yes," she said irritably. "How fortunate for us all that you have _talent._"

When they disappeared around the bend of the next level's curved hallway, he was still laughing.

* * *

"A _disaster!_" Enchanter Deidre yelled, pacing back and forth beside the First Enchanter's desk. "What in the Maker's name did you think you were playing at, casting a spell like that in the classrooms? An un-Harrowed apprentice! You could've gotten yourself killed—gotten someone _else_ killed!"

Dorian and Jowan stood side by side across from where the First Enchanter sat, and Drass stood at attention on the right side of the desk. Enchanter Deidre had continued her lecture once they reached the First Enchanter's office, embellishing it with a retelling of the incident for Irving's benefit. The old mage had sat and listened in silence as she scolded both Dorian for his foolishness and Jowan for enabling it.

"Thank you, Deidre," the First Enchanter said when she was finished. "I thank you and Templar Drass both for getting the situation under control so swiftly and bringing it to my attention. I can handle things from here."

Enchanter Deidre pursed her lips and nodded curtly. "Just be warned, young man," she said finally, her eyes on Dorian. "Maker knows I tried to teach you humility. If you don't get your attitude under control, one day you're going to dip your feet into something thinking you can't be beat, only to find out you've jumped into quicksand."

She turned brusquely to leave, the fabric of her robes flowing behind her in an angry wind. Templar Drass nodded to the First Enchanter, his eyes flitting quickly over Dorian with a nervousness that would have been easy to miss if Dorian had not been looking for it. He bowed his head slightly, giving the templar an almost brazenly coquettish smirk as he turned to exit. Drass ducked his own head, averting his eyes, and snapped the door shut firmly behind him.

"I get the feeling she's upset with me, don't you?" Dorian observed lightly, glancing back to the First Enchanter.

"Dorian, we're _all_ rather deeply disappointed in you." Irving sighed, but contrary to his words, he didn't sound disapproving so much as exhausted. "In all my years as an enchanter, you are one of the most promising students I have known. You have always earned the highest of marks, and perhaps you have been allowed certain… liberties because of it."

Crossing his arms, the elf snorted softly. "Funny. I've always felt something like a prisoner, myself."

"I know that," Irving said, and he actually sounded genuinely regretful. In his presence, Dorian found it hard to maintain his airs of complete insolence and flippancy. For all that he was obviously in league with the Chantry, Irving had always been good to him. He wasn't like Knight-Commander Greagoir, whose predictably strict authoritarianism had always seemed to _beg_ for Dorian to cross it. "Many young mages feel as you do: resentful, restless, rash. Don't think too ill of me for saying so, but it often comes with youth. In time, you will grow out of it. "

"You've got some time to wait, then," Dorian said. "Because I don't feel myself getting any less young-and-resentful any time soon."

"That's just the problem, I'm afraid," Irving went on. "I understand your position well. I wasn't always First Enchanter, you know. The problem is, the Knight-Commander is understandably upset by your behavior, and the way you… inspire others to follow along."

The First Enchanter's eyes fell on Jowan, who kept his own gaze set on his feet, properly ashamed.

"I cannot protect you forever, my boy. You two are no longer children sneaking out of bed past curfew. Things must change, or there will be consequences."

"First Enchanter, please," Jowan said, daring to glance up from the ground. "It's been so long since we've gotten in trouble like this. He didn't mean anything by it, he's just—frustrated lately, you know, things have been hard—"

Dorian turned to Jowan in surprise, his eyebrows raised. "I'm _frustrated? _Well, who would have guessed! Yeah, I'm frustrated to be _stuck_ here."

"No," Jowan said firmly. "That's not it. You don't need to show off to prove you're good and you _know _it. You're just on edge because you think Sibyl likes Cullen more than you. Do you really think you would have let Denri provoke you into starting a Tempest in the _classrooms _otherwise? All you do these days is talk about is how much you hate Cullen—"

"There's nothing special about him!" Dorian argued. "Why shouldn't I hate him?"

"Because what's it to you? He's just another templar, you don't think _any _of them are special," Jowan said. "You're jealous, and you're _obsessed._"

"All right, all right," Irving interrupted, his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples in slow circles. Suddenly, the age lines in his face seemed far deeper. "I believe I am beginning to get the picture here. Dorian, you must understand—"

At that moment, there was a knock at the door and a tall elven mage poked her head into the room. Irving's shoulders seemed to droop in exasperation, but when he opened his eyes and nodded to the girl, his expression was warm. "First Enchanter, there's been a bit of a commotion and the Knight-Commander asked me to bring it to your attention. He would like you join him in the Great Hall for a moment."

"Is it urgent?" Irving asked tiredly, and the girl nodded, so he slowly pulled himself to his feet. "Dorian, Jowan, do not go anywhere—I'll return shortly and we will finish this discussion."

Once the First Enchanter had left and the door was shut, leaving them alone in the office, Dorian whirled around and advanced on Jowan without a moment for hesitation. He had a predatory sort of grin on his face, his eyes shining with an excited light that could only mean he'd had an idea—he didn't even seem slightly fazed by the trouble they were in. Jowan took a few cautious steps back, finding himself pressed up against Irving's desk, pinned in place by Dorian's hands on either side of his hips.

"Jealous," he repeated slowly, a spark of curiosity flashing in his eyes, his half-smirk. "So I kissed Sibyl and she pushed me away. It's true. Perhaps I miscalculated by doing that in a hallway at midday. You think that means I'm _jealous_ of Cullen?"

Jowan swallowed and hung his head, both because he didn't want to meet the other boy's eyes and because he seemed to be hovering in rather close now. "I'm just saying it looks that way," he said hoarsely.

"Does it?" Dorian went on, tilting his head slightly as if in question. The other boy gasped as Dorian's hand shifted from the desk at his side to resting on Jowan's hip, lingering for a moment near his groin, before sliding up over his chest to trace a collarbone and up the side of his neck. "You seemed rather sure of it when you explained it to the First Enchanter."

"What are you doing?" Jowan asked, his breath becoming ragged.

"Just another little game, to prove another little… point," Dorian murmured, his smile still vaguely feline. His hand now traced Jowan's jaw line, his fingers running over the stubble there. There were only inches between them. "I've dreamt of this opportunity, you know—here, the First Enchanter's office! What luck we have."

His laugh was low in his throat as leaned in, closing the space between them and kissing Jowan hungrily. The human boy threw his hands back for support as Dorian pressed himself forward, forcing Jowan onto the First Enchanter's desk. For a good moment that seemed to stretch out for an impossibly long time, his brain seemed to simply freeze on him, completely blank with shock. There were a million things Dorian _could _have done once Irving had shut that door, and this was quite possibly the last one Jowan had expected.

It was a given: Dorian made moves on everyone else with complete impunity, even Sibyl. But never, ever _him._

He should push Dorian away now, he thought, when the first corner of his mind flickered back to the reality of the way his friend's hands were deftly beginning to unlace the ties on his robes, the reality that somewhere along the way—how had this happened?—he had begun to kiss back, and Dorian's tongue was in his mouth, and Maker, he kissed the way he did everything else: full of confidence and passion and heat. Yes, he should _definitely_ push Dorian away now, but instead of doing so, he hesitated—always hesitated when it came to what his oldest friend asked of him.

And just as quickly as it had begun, Dorian broke the kiss and pulled away, reacting to something outside of Jowan's quickly narrowing field of awareness.

"A kiss is just a kiss, whatever the reaction," he said, raising his eyebrows and giving his friend a coy smile. "It's best not to read anything into it, don't you think?"

Skillfully and calmly, as if he had had plenty of practice, he stepped well away from Jowan and smoothed out his robes and adjusted his collar, standing up straight and turning to look casually at the door. Almost a beat too late, Jowan managed to regain his own composure and remove himself from the First Enchanter's desk, hastily trying to return the papers and various knick-knacks they had displaced to their original spots before returning to Dorian's side. He hadn't managed to wipe away whatever look the experience had painted across his face, though, because when the door swung open and the First Enchanter stepped back in, he took a quick look at the two apprentices and let out another sigh.

He settled back down in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. "Dorian, dare I ask why you're grinning like the cat who ate the canary, and why Jowan looks… ah…"

"Like the canary?" Dorian offered unabashedly, and Irving shot him a stern look as Jowan returned to staring dumbstruck at his feet. "It's just that, well, you probably don't want to ask, ser."

Irving blinked, his composure unwavering as he processed the information. Slowly, he unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair. Jowan at least had the good grace to look guilty.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked softly, and he didn't even seem angry, but just… thoroughly weary. "I want to help you, Dorian. Mages of the Circle _must_ help each other, it is vital that we stay together. Do you think, if I promised to help you, that you could do the same for me?"

"Help me?" Dorian asked, suddenly sobering. "Were you actually thinking of letting me _leave?_"

"You know mages leave the Tower sometimes," Irving said carefully. "Chantry business, working as healers… and I'm sure you've heard that several mages will be leaving before long to aid the King's armies against the darkspawn. There are ways, and I can help you, but _only_ if you don't keep the Knight-Commander convinced that you're a proper menace."

"I would don a frilly gown and dance through the main hall singing like a bloody Orlesian bard if it got either of you to let me out of here," Dorian said.

"I think that's what he's afraid of," Jowan muttered.

Irving smiled kindly, relaxing, because it finally looked as if he had hit on the proper way to rein in Dorian Surana. It might have been something of a gamble, but it was better than losing a student to the Rite of Tranquility for nothing more than an, admittedly overstated, tendency towards impertinence. "Yes, in a way. I just need the both of you to settle down for awhile. Accept your punishment for this latest incident, and curb your rebelliousness until after your Harrowing. And then, perhaps, I will be able to do something for you."

Dorian suddenly looked as if his birthday had been declared a national Fereldan holiday. The way his face lit up at the prospect of actually, truly leaving the Tower made him look younger, boyish, the signs of the restless predator that had pushed Jowan against a desk only moments ago nearly erased. "Really? Do you promise me—I have your word—that I'll have my Harrowing and I'll get an assignment outside the Tower? At least for a little while?"

Irving sighed,again_,_ but this time it sounded more like an old man humoring the exuberance of youth. "Yes, _if_ you behave—no more lightning shows, no causing scenes—you will have your Harrowing the week after Miss Amell's has been scheduled, and I promise to convince the Knight-Commander to find something outside the Tower you can be assigned to, at least temporarily."

The grin that spread across Dorian's face was so carefree, so purely joyful in a way that Irving couldn't remember seeing since the boy had been a child, that for a moment he found himself feeling slightly guilty. It would take no small amount of arguing, and probably quite an earful or two of heated protestations, to convince Greagoir to let him outside of the Tower, especially so soon. He would see reason eventually, because truly, this deal was the most reliable way to get Dorian to behave. But what he dared not tell the young mage was that in all likelihood, he would be given some gruelingly tedious task that included a lot of strenuous travel, a lot of tedious, minor spellwork, and even more painfully stringent templar supervision.

There were mages that had been allowed out for independent work without supervision—Enchanter Wynne, and Ines, and others who had proven unfailingly loyal to both the Circle and the Chantry. Dorian Surana was not likely to be one of them anytime soon. But the less he knew of that, the better.

"Ser, you have my word that you'll hear nothing from me at all until my Harrowing—I'll be as quiet and unassuming as a Chanter! Jowan, too," Dorian said brightly, giving his friend a light slap on the arm. Jowan jumped about a foot in surprise at the contact. There was an unmistakable note of earnestness in Dorian's voice, which was an entirely unexpected development, but it gave the First Enchanter hope that he truly would live up to his word.

He nodded to Dorian, and smiled affectionately. "Good. I'll expect nothing less of you."

Irving dismissed them not long after, with only minor punishments that truly amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist—a week without grounds privileges for Jowan, and a restriction against performing any complex spells without his enchanter's supervision until after his Harrowing for Dorian. It wasn't _much, _but it was enough to appease the Knight-Commander that the issue had been dealt with and not simply rewarded. He was counting on Dorian to be as good as his word (and Jowan to follow his lead, as usual), with the tempting prize of future travel dangling before him. If he knew the apprentice—and Irving was very good at knowing _all_ of the mages and apprentices he watched over—if that did not get the young elf to settle down, no amount of punishment ever would.

* * *

There was a particularly enthused spring in Dorian's step as he and Jowan left the First Enchanter's office and began their stroll down the hall. Jowan, in contrast, still had a look of vague bewilderment swimming over his features. The fact did not escape Dorian's notice.

"Well, that was eventful, wasn't it? Making out on the First Enchanter's desk—how many apprentices do you suppose can say they've done that?" he asked, casually wrapping an arm around Jowan's shoulders and giving him a friendly squeeze. "I really feel like I've accomplished something today."

Jowan swallowed the lump in his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Sure, _you_ get to celebrate. Maybe you didn't notice, but I wasn't assigned a Harrowing date. I'm going to be the only one left as an apprentice."

"That's nonsense, Jowan," Dorian insisted. "You'll be Harrowed yet, you'll see. And then, first chance we get, we'll make a run from whatever templars they send out with us as babysitters and get on the first ship to Minrathous."

Jowan frowned. "I—I'm not sure I really want—"

"Antiva City, then? Maybe Nevarra? There's really no place as good for a couple of escaped mages as Tevinter, you know," Dorian pressed on thoughtfully, his eyes glazing over as he formed a mental picture of their grand escape and future lives as free mages.

"No, I mean I'm not sure I want to _leave_." When Dorian stopped short and gave him a skeptical look, Jowan added hastily, "It's safer here, you know? Minrathous, I mean—you could get kidnapped by slavers. Then what would I do?"

"That _would_ be a bit of a snag," he admitted. "But we can take on a few slavers, can't we? It's not like they just steal random elves off the street, right? You can be my human bodyguard."

"Yeah," Jowan agreed softly.

"Stop worrying, it'll be brilliant," Dorian assured him, his hand lowering suddenly from Jowan's shoulders to his waist, and tugged his friend closer. "And I'll need some way to entertain myself if I have to settle down until then. What sordid location do you think should be next, now that we've crossed off Irving's office? Should we invite Sibyl?"

"I'm going to the Chantry," Jowan announced abruptly, after a moment's hesitation, and he tried valiantly to extricate himself from Dorian's grip.

"Jowan, you dog!" Dorian grinned at the way Jowan winced in response, but mercifully released him. "Even I haven't dared to defile such a holy place. Though now that you mention it…"

"I'd like to go _alone,_" Jowan said thickly. That tone went far beyond simply exasperated or embarrassed. Jowan actually seemed to be holding back a streak of distinctly irritated insistence, and it gave Dorian pause for once, if only because it was so out of character.

"Something the matter?"

"I have a bit on my mind," Jowan answered quickly. "We've gotten in enough trouble together and it's not even lunch. I have more than enough to apologize to Andraste for, don't you?"

"Oh, you slay me. Just like a Chantry sister, you are, scolding me for my evil deeds…" Dorian said dramatically, though the way he was studying Jowan now was rife with curiosity. Was he imagining things, or had Jowan just _flinched? _ "And yet, all the while back there you didn't seem so unwilling to _me,_" he added on for good measure, hovering in dangerously close again. He could easily accept that he had made Jowan uncomfortable—in some part of his mind, he had likely _intended_ to. But Jowan was not one to take a leaf out of Drass's book and start praying diligently for Andraste to wash away his sins. There was a mystery there, something Jowan was _hiding, _and Dorian did enjoy a challenge.

"I have to go," was all Jowan could choke out, seeing that _look_ Dorian had adopted, as if he was about to pounce again. Instead of giving the lion further opportunity to set upon its prey, Jowan turned and walked as quickly down the hall as he could without breaking out into a full on run, a terrified gazelle.

Dorian simply watched him go, shrugging to himself and content to abandon the chase, at least for now. There would be plenty of time to unpack Jowan's secrets later. He had bigger plans to iron out at the moment—he still had Cullen to deal with, after all, and Irving had raised the stakes yet again. Discretion was paramount now more than ever, lest he compromise his own freedom.

Not even Sibyl was worth that, not quite.

But somehow, he suspected that he would be able to manage. He always did. Smiling to himself, he turned on his heel and headed to the library, to think.

* * *

**I just wanted to note again that I didn't make up the apprentices (Denri, Daarci, and Mand). If you read the codex, they too are actually from DAO! It's so much fun trying to imagine what minor, barely mentioned characters might have been up to in the background from what tiny information we get about them in the game, and I might bring them back for another cameo later on. Plus, it means I don't have to come up with my own Dragon Age-esque names for extras and worry that they're rubbish *g***


	5. What Pride Wrought, part 2

**Shorter update today. I've decided shorter is probably better than fewer, yes? Next one is looking to be quite long again, though.**

**Thanks to Nenalata for pointing out a dumb continuity error I made in the last chapter. Apparently no matter how long you spend perusing the DAWiki, some things still slip by. Catches much appreciated!**

* * *

**V. PRIDE, pt 2**

Sibyl could easily be considered his better half, Dorian mused.

The thought occurred to him as he sat in a large chair in the library, a monstrous old tome balanced on his knees. It was an in-depth analysis of lyrium mining and preparation, and from what he had skimmed it was written in painstaking—and _mind-numbing_—detail. He hadn't more than glanced at it since he strolled into the library and plucked it off the nearest shelf, settling himself into the most comfortable chair available and letting it fall open haphazardly, though he did periodically turn its pages just to maintain the illusion that he was actually reading.

But his mind was decidedly elsewhere, wandering from casual, largely uninterested speculation on the latest juicy gossip among the apprentices to Drass's curious scarcity ever since the incident in the classrooms. It had been almost five days ago now, and he had hardly seen the templar at all, although he _had _seen plenty of Cullen lurking about in the shadows, as if he'd taken to specifically following him and Sibyl—

His thoughts always doubled back to the Cullen, he realized bitterly,and therefore, inevitably, to _Sibyl_.

And that was the problem with letting his mind wander—it invited self-reflection. It was better not to idly probe the inner workings of one's motivations when one was knee-deep in devising a plan to enact the destruction of the relationship of one's best friend with her potential suitor. It might just stir up notions that one really was _jealous, _and although he was quite comfortable with pettiness, _jealousy_ made it feel too much like the outcome actually mattered beyond his mental scorecard of successful manipulation. And he couldn't exactly push himself onto the First Enchanter's desk and kiss the idea out of his own head. For one, it wasn't physically possible, and two, even if it was… well, even his own narcissism had _limits._

Best not to think of it, then. _Focus, _he reminded himself sternly, fingers tapping against the worn pages of the tome as he leaned back and studied the pattern of stones in the ceiling.

Maker, there was no denying it. Sibyl was smart, and in possession of an impeccable moral compass. Whenever he stepped too far out of line, he could expect her to be the first to let him know. And this wasn't without its benefits, for all that it often meant he regularly got an earful of her moralistic ire. He knew her, and he knew what made her tick. Years of familiarity added to her penchant for being so unselfishly committed to _being good_ equaled predictability.

Predictability worked in his favor.

His lips curled into a smile as the tapping of his fingers grew more frenzied. He licked his lips, catching the bottom between his teeth.

Cullen was simple enough to figure out; templars were all the same, and most of them wanted exactly what Drass did—companionship. It was in their nature, as protectors and soldiers and watchmen, and ironically denied to them by their Chantry-insulated lifestyles and lengthy assignments in isolated Towers or mage-hunts in remote areas. Cullen was young, and infatuated, and Sibyl was beautiful. He knew well how _that_ worked. All Cullen needed was a sign, the right push at the right time, and he would go tumbling away helplessly into the grip of his desire. Templar willpower was formidable, not infinite. He just needed to know where the cracks were, where to pick away, and it would all fall apart like so much dust.

As for Sibyl, she had made her disapproval for his relationship with Drass known quite plainly. And for all that she got that stupid blush on her face whenever she spoke to Cullen, and indeed _sought him out _with frustrating regularity, she would _never_ carry on an illicit affair with him. After all, that would be wrong. Improper. That impeccable moral compass of hers would never allow it.

His fingers fell still one after the other, his hand fanned out over faded text.

"Wipe that self-satisfied smirk on your face right now," a sharp, angry voice said, piercing his thoughts. "You've done enough scheming lately to last us until we're both senior enchanters."

"I'm never going to be a senior enchanter, we've been over this," he said, looking down from the ceiling to see Sibyl standing before him, her hands placed on her hips and her face pulled into a tight scowl. Her nose was wrinkled just slightly at the bridge, caught between her delicate eyebrows, lips pursed. He lifted a hand to his mouth to cover the laugh that had started to bubble up. It was _funny, _the way she looked when she was angry, but not in a way that made him want her to feel mocked.

"And that _really_ doesn't change my point at all," she said. When she became all irritated and acerbic like she was now, slightly out of breath as if she'd actually run here specifically to yell at him, it made that feeling of amusement swell even more fully in his chest.

He let his hand fall back into his lap, showing her his smirk. "You are just so _adorable_ when you're mad, do you know that? Like a mabari puppy whose lost his bone."

She grunted in disgust. "You—you're really—ugh, no. I don't care. This _mabari pup _has something to say to you, _Surana, _and you had better get your arse up and follow me out of the library right now, or I will just tear you a new one right here. I don't care how many young and impressionable apprentices may be watching."

He shrugged, closing the tome in his lap lightly and placing it on a nearby end table.

"So I'm in trouble again, is that it?"

"Yes, you sodding well are."

Sibyl spat the words out with vigor, grabbing his wrist and pulling him out of his seat before he had a chance to stand up of his own volition. They passed a group of young apprentices studying their lessons who couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, and the children watched with wide-eyed interest as she dragged him towards the door as if _he _was a misbehaving mabari pup, put on a leash.

"This is what you get for angering a lady," he explained to them as she pulled him over the threshold and into the hallway. "You'll understand when you're older!"

Sibyl slammed the door shut and rounded on him, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry.

"What in the name of everything good and holy do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

Dorian had to think hard for a minute, because that was really such a loaded question and could refer to almost anything. He could probably guess with some accuracy, but the list of things he had done that she might take issue with was really too long for him to be able to safely settle on any one. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, my lady. You know me. I'm just a simple mage-apprentice, living my life to please Andraste, and I was peacefully minding my own business, studying _diligently _for my Harrowing, when this enraged harpy swooped down upon me—"

"Living to please Andraste," she repeated with a flat, bitter note. "Well, you're doing a piss poor job of it. Let's review: First you kiss me in a hallway in front of half the Tower. _Then_ you nearly destroy the classrooms—including a few irreplaceable books I might add—and proceed to _grope_ Jowan in the First Enchanter's _office!_"

Dorian gave her an apologetic grin that was really far too pleased to be sincere. Mostly, he was just sorry that she had found out. After the first two days had passed and Jowan hadn't let that little detail slip, he had hoped it could remain a secret between the two of them. Apparently not.

"Oh. That. Yes… I guess I might have done all that. What can I say, it was a busy day."

"You think this is funny," she said with disgust. She had so far managed to keep her voice at a discreet volume. "He just told me the whole story. Are you out of your—no, why ask? I _know_ you are. This is spite. This is just so quintessentially _you, _but you can_not_ pull Jowan into it. I know you think he's your personal sidekick and chew-toy or something, but at some point you need to stop being so self-involved and actually _think _about how your actions affect other people!_"_

"Maker, Sib, I kissed him, maybe felt him up a bit—I didn't trick him into offering his body up as a vessel for the nearest demon. Don't you think you're overreacting just a little bit?" Dorian said dismissively. After a beat, he added with a grin that was _anything _but apologetic, "That is, unless you're… _jealous?_"

She inhaled sharply at his suggestion, and for a moment he thought she was going to begin to yell. Instead, she retook his wrist and began pulling him farther on down the hallway, her stride long and quick. Everything about her communicated _fury, _from the tightness in the corners of her mouth down to the way the loose fabric of her robes whipped angrily against her legs as she walked and the sound of her footsteps erupted against the stone with each stomp of her feet. He followed along obediently, mildly curious as to where this effusion of emotion would take them, and stoically refusing to admit to himself that he _liked _it when she fought back.

They stopped inside the stairwell between their current level and the next. When she let go of him, she shoved him against the wall so roughly he actually lost his breath for a moment. Was it too much to hope that she had hauled him here to continue what he had started the last time he had _her _cornered against a wall? The dimness of the area cast shadows over her face, lit instead with anger, and her hair was ruffled and windswept from their brisk walk, framing her face in a way that seemed unusually severe.

Yes, _far_ too much to hope.

"Dorian, you can try to mess around with all the girls you want. You can spend your time flirting with templars if that's what strikes your twisted fancy. You can even try to mess with _me,_ if you are _honestly _that bored with your life, but you will leave Jowan out of it, do you understand? He's your _friend_. Some people actually attach emotions and intent to their actions. You may have noticed this about others at some point."

Failing the excitement of an abrupt angry, heated, but equally passionate resolution to the situation, he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, settling comfortably against the wall behind him.

"What, you think he's going to fall in love with me because we fooled around on Irving's desk? Don't be ridiculous. If you _are_ jealous you should really just say so, and we can clear this up," he said. "In fact, I think Irving's taking his lunch break right now, or maybe you'd prefer we sneak into Greagoir's—"

The slap hit him so hard and so fast that he actually gasped, mostly from the shock of it. Her hand was still raised a few inches from his face, which _stung_ at the point of impact. She was shaking as she drew away, her fingers curling, and he contemplated with dread the possibility of her repeating the blow with a fist. When she made no further movements, he began to rub his cheek gingerly, giving her a look like a kicked puppy.

"That wasn't fair, was it?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she said. Her entire face was flushed. "Is this really how you're going to try to get back at me? Because I won't let you use Jowan like this. You need to stop this lunatic streak where you think you have the right to bed everything that moves. You're going to be Harrowed soon. You're too old for this crap. We all are!"

He gave his cheek one last delicate stroke before returning his arms to their crossed position, jutting his chin defiantly. "You sound just like Irving, you know? He wanted me to stop getting into trouble, and now you want me to stop philandering with my fellow apprentices—what left will there be for me to do?"

"Perhaps you can use the free time to finally learn how to conduct yourself like a civilized member of society_,_" she said venomously. "What was the point of leading Jowan on like that, anyway? Did you really think that if you made out with him, it would make me _jealous?"_

Her eyes flashed as she spoke. He pushed away from the wall, casually launching himself in her direction. His expression had that peculiar, unsettling blankness to it; it was _too _smooth, _too _even, to be natural. He was close to her now, though he was careful not to touch her as he leaned in, his lips only inches from her ear. She swallowed, the anger and resolve in her eyes wavering. Even if he couldn't see her face, she felt certain that he sensed her nervousness.

"No," he answered in a low, breathy whisper. "I don't need to _try_ to make you jealous, do I, Sib? I was making a point to Jowan, one that you would do well to take note of yourself: It never means _anything._"

"I _know_ it doesn't." She pronounced the words as if they were razors on her lips, every muscle in her body tensing. "But… not everyone can feel that way… Jowan doesn't…"

She gasped, losing the direction of her sentence when he grasped her upper arms firmly, just as he had before he had kissed her. But this time, he simply pushed her unceremoniously to the side. His face had lit up with an expectant smile, one that meant _trouble, _as he craned his neck to look up the staircase behind her.

She found herself sputtering, the words ripped from her throat.

"Why don't you let Jowan speak for himself?" Dorian said lightly. "He's coming this way."

She slipped out of his grasp and turned around, the feeling of his hands closed tightly around her lingering even after he let go. And he was right: at the top of the staircase stood Jowan, holding a weathered old leather-bound book not much bigger than the palm of one of his hands.

"There you two are," he said, sounding relieved, and entirely oblivious to the mood of the conversation he had just walked in on. "I've been looking everywhere for you, I really need some advice. Uh, but why are you standing around in an empty stairwell?"

"Now's really not a good time," Sibyl said quickly, pulling together her bearings and stepping in front of Dorian as if she could block him from answering Jowan as well as seeing him. "We were just… coming to an understanding on an issue. I can help you later. After dinner, maybe."

Jowan glanced between his two friends, his eyebrows knitted in uncertainty. Sibyl shook her head at him, tight-lipped, hoping he would take the hint and turn around. Instead, he stepped forward_._

"Actually…" he began hesitantly, walking down the first few steps towards them. "No offense, Sib, but I was hoping to ask _Dorian's_ advice. For once, I think his perspective would be more helpful."

Sibyl sighed, hanging her head and running a hand through her hair as Dorian peered out from behind her. She didn't need to see him to know what kind of look he had on his face.

"I am nothing if not a font of sound advice," he said brightly. "What do you need?"

Jowan clambered down the last few steps and took a seat on the bottom one, flipping idly through the pages of the small book in his hands. Sibyl realized from the pattern of the lettering inside what it was, and had to suppress a groan. It was a book of _love sonnets._

"It's just—I've been thinking," Jowan began carefully, his eyes focused intently on whatever page he had opened the book to, one of his fingers tracing the length of the poem. "You were trying to tell me the other day how to, you know, get someone to like you. And I was thinking that maybe, um, I _do _want your help. Recently, I've just been… desperate. I have no idea what to _do._"

Dorian brushed past Sibyl to sit down on the steps next to Jowan, throwing an arm around his shoulder. The unsettling blankness was gone, the intrigue of Jowan's request far too tempting a distraction from Sibyl's chastising. "Anything for you, my friend. So let's start with the basics. Who _is _the lucky lady?"

Jowan's posture stiffened immediately under Dorian's touch. Although he looked uncomfortable, he didn't pull away, though his mouth did twitch uncertainly, his eyes squinting as if he was in great pain as he searched for the best way to explain his predicament.

"Is that detail really important?" Sibyl cut in kindly, smiling at Jowan. "I really think you and I should talk about this issue later. He's not going to tell you anything you want to hear."

"And what will _you _tell him, I wonder?" Dorian asked, glancing up at her. "Do you have some great strategies worked out from your _loads _of experience with whats-his-name—the one who used to sneak around your dormitory so he could collect the strands of hair that came off on your pillow while you slept? You two had a truly deep and beautiful relationship, as I understand it."

"He wasn't the _only _person who ever tried to court me, you know," Sibyl snapped. She really wished, for Jowan's sake, that he had not chosen this moment (or really, _any _moment) to ask Dorian for advice. She could see it all spinning horribly out of control before he even opened his mouth. He had always been capricious, but lately she felt like she was constantly walking on eggshells around him. One wrong word, and he would latch onto the opening with claws out, tearing at any weaknesses. A sharp tongue and noticeable disregard for others' feelings wasn't exactly anything new, but had he always been so _volatile?_

He gave Jowan a conspiratorial pat on his shoulder and a sideways grin the other boy looked too disturbed to return, but his focus was on Sibyl.

"Of course, how could we forget Cullen?" Dorian amended cheerfully. "How about that, Jowan? Sib will solve all of your troubles through her keen observations of the incessant pining of an overgrown manchild."

"Can we not make this about how much you hate Cullen?" Jowan murmured, staring intently at his hands.

"Yes, let's not," Sibyl said. "Just because I don't bend over for anyone who asks like _you _do, doesn't mean I don't know a thing or two—"

"Do you really think that implying I'm a whore will _offend _me?" Dorian said, with a little snort of amusement. "It takes a whole lot more than that. Tell me, what _thing _or even two do you know?"

"Eadric," she stated curtly. "I fucked Eadric, last year. In the library. _Loads _of times."

The smile on Dorian's face faltered, almost imperceptibly, but it was there, mostly in his eyes. What real amusement slipped away he replaced with that false, impenetrable steel. For once, seeing that look in him gave her a sick feeling of satisfaction that she couldn't help but relish. She almost didn't notice as Jowan, free of Dorian's arm which had fallen limply back to his side, started to speak.

"The last time I spoke to Eadric he called me a dirty _shem _for standing in his reading light," Jowan said. "If she could win him over, she can help me win over anyone_._"

Dorian shook his head. "She's lying. Eadric would never sleep with a human. We all would have heard about it if he'd put aside his hang-ups for _Sibyl._"

"Back when I was first learning mind blast. When I got special permission to stay up after curfew and practice," Sibyl said quickly, her words short and cold as she launched into the story. "He had gotten permission too, because he'd found that ancient Elvish book that had been forgotten under a pile of old Tevinter trade documents and he was trying to translate it. He was so bitter, at first, about having to sit across from me all night. He kept saying my practicing was disturbing his concentration. So I told him if he'd shut up, I would help him with the translation. He said _shemlen _didn't have the patience to piece through Elvish, but you know me. I'm very patient."

She licked her lips, her arms hanging loosely by her sides. Dorian was refusing to look at her fully now. So he remembered the fuss Eadric had made over his find, he remembered those nights she had spent in the library with him, and he knew she was telling the truth. And it was making him uncomfortable. _Good._

"It turned out to be a songbook about Fen'Harel sealing the Creators away, and their sorrow at the fall of Arlathan, probably written by the very first elves enslaved by the magisters. Old elven poetry is always so sad, you know, really beautiful, and I—I started crying, at one of the verses, because I always remember that story and it makes me think of—well." She sniffed softly once before going on. "The point is, he was impressed that a _shem _would care so much about his people. He held me while I cried, and he was so gentle, and then… after the templar assigned to watching over us escorted us back to the dormitories, we… snuck back out together. The rest isn't important."

The story finished, her proof that she knew _just _as much as Dorian did finally let out, Sibyl averted her eyes to look at the tips of her shoes peeking out from under the hem of her robes. What she didn't dare tell them—either of them—was that a few weeks later, Eadric had suggested that maybe her close relationship to Dorian was responsible for her sensitivity to issues of elven history, and she had snapped that he had better not mention _Dorian _right after they had just had sex ever again. When he had subsequently laughed at her (and it hadn't even been _unkindly, _she recalled ruefully) she had stormed away, and that had been the last time they had met in private. Eadric had been rather short with her ever since, but then again, he was short with most humans. No one had ever noticed anything unusual between them.

"That doesn't sound like a lie to me," Jowan said, looking to Dorian with an impressed smile. When Dorian only shot him a sour glare in return, his face fell and he sunk back away from his friend. "Why didn't you tell us at the time?"

Sibyl could only shrug in response. Dorian was schooling his expression into one that was more calm and unbothered, tucking his discomfort away and getting ready for his retaliation. When he finally stared up at her with a renewed mirth that only made her nervous, she realized she had much preferred it when he was busily trying to deny that her story was true. Maybe she had been _too _convincing.

His gaze focused steadily on her face, he clapped four times, slow and drawn out.

"Very good show, Sibyl. I was wrong. You _do _know a thing or two about getting your way," he said. The smile he gave her, meant to be congratulatory, was more than subtlely mocking. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable catch to his concession. "The difference between me and you, though, is that even though I'll fuck anyone to get what I want, no one is ever unsure about my intentions. _You, _on the other hand, pretend like you have such high morals, but you'll smile and bat your eyelashes at anyone from Greagoir, Irving, and Deidre right down to Eadric and perfect Ser Cullen to make them think you're such _sweet _girl. And from that position, you can manipulate them all you want, just as well as—better than—I do, can't you? But they don't know the first thing about who you really are, and _that _offends me."

She stiffened visibly, her hands clenching into fists. "You're a bastard."

"No, I'm a whore who'll bend over for anyone who asks," he said. That visible, unshakable affableness in his expression was going to make her slap him again. "But at least _I'm _honest about it."

It took her a moment before she realized that she was trembling, and that the stinging in her eyes was the result of the tears that had begun to well up. She reached up stiffly to dab at the corners of her eyes with her sleeves. She knew he considered her tears an admission that he was correct, and at that moment she hated herself for crying almost as much as she hated him.

So preoccupied with each other they had become, that neither of them noticed the way Jowan's face had clouded over with frustration. He stood up, climbing one step with a needlessly heavy stomp that echoed in the silence of the stairwell. Still, Sibyl continued to stare at her feet, inhaling with a sniff every few seconds, and Dorian sat with his arms crossed, his face blank.

Neither looked up at Jowan.

"Can't you just pay attention to _me _for one second?" Jowan finally shouted, breaking the silence and looking first to Dorian. "All I ask for is a little advice, and you even can't stop obsessing over Sibyl for five minutes! You two need to sort yourselves out, because I want my friends back."

He climbed up the rest of the stairs with lighter, quicker footfalls, pausing only when he had reached the top. With one hand on the door, he looked back down at them. "Because I—I _need _you."

His eyes were squinting in that same nervous, unsure way that they had before with Dorian's arm around his shoulders. He pressed his lips together, swallowing visibly before he bolted away, disappearing around the bend of the doorframe.

"It's _you_ he's in love with, you arrogant sod," Sibyl hissed once the door had shut behind him, wiping the lingering wetness from her eyes. Her voice was still thick, and her hands still trembled, but Jowan was right. They had made this about themselves when it was really about _him, _so she tried to push past her anger to cut to the point. The quicker she concluded their conversation, the quicker she could bolt. "_That's_ why this is such a big deal. I'm surprised that your narcissism hasn't yet alerted you to the clues. He's been talking about this mystery love of his for how long now, and he still won't tell us a name? And he wants _your _advice only. He leaves and says he _needs _you! Because it _is _you! And by Andraste's grace, Dorian, if you hurt him because you're just—_you—_I will—"

"You're crazy," Dorian said, getting to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at her. "He's mad at both of us, and this isn't _my _fault. You think I'm screwed up, but _you _have lost it. Jowan is not in love with me. Not for any reason at all, but certainly not because I kissed him _one_ time."

"He didn't fight you off, did he?" Sibyl asked. "Didn't he kiss you back? When he told me, he told me not to be angry, because, '_it's not so bad, it's not like he's a terrible kisser or anything.'_ You know Jowan, he can't lie about anything. You started something you didn't mean to, and now you have to stop it before it gets out of hand."

"I'll admit I'm good, and I'm _so _flattered to know he agrees, but my lips hardly inspire devotion in every person they touch," Dorian snorted. "Otherwise, you'd be worshipping me at my feet right now instead of screeching insanity at me. Which I must say would be a _vast _improvement."

"Belittling me doesn't change anything," she said, emphasizing the words as if they were an incantation and she could make them true through sheer force of will. "Maybe _you_ don't care about him or his feelings, but he's our oldest friend. He's like my _brother, _and you… I really do love you both and I won't let you treat him like this just so you can _prove_ something. It's getting old and I'm sick of it. I'm so fucking sick of it. And I—I'm sick of _you, _carrying on like you don't care about anyone in the world but yourself. Lashing out at everyone around you because you're… bored, or jealous, or Maker only knows what—"

Her voice broke off, the tears she had tried so hard to fight back threatening to burst forth again. She pivoted on her heels, turning her face away from him so she could rub her eyes and take deep breaths. She would not break into full out sobs in front of him. Not here. Not now.

It all felt vaguely unreal, like the descriptions they had read in textbooks of walking through the Fade. Dorian couldn't even remember the last time Sibyl had really cried, although Eadric probably did, he noted bitterly. What had started out as self-satisfied triumph in turning her attempt to show him up back around on her was now settling heavily in his chest, poisoned by her reaction. She was his better half, after all. His moral compass. And she was _crying._

He licked his lips uncomfortably, searching his mind for the right words and the willpower to force them out. "Sibyl, I—maybe I shouldn't have been so harsh, I—I didn't mean…"

"Don't you hurt yourself trying to dig up a feeling out of that great chasm you have in between your ribs," she choked out, pulling herself back up to look at him, her eyes red and puffy—but dry. Her voice had fallen quickly past angry and landed firmly on downright cold. Dorian felt the air rush out of his lungs, and he was almost surprised to find that it _hurt_. "You _will_ apologize to Jowan. You_ will_ tell him that you're just an inconsiderate arse who can't keep it in your damn robes and who isn't right for him, for me, for _anyone_, and you _will _make this go away. I don't care how. Because you can't ruin us, the three of us, what we have—I won't let you. I won't."

She was speaking almost robotically now, her face grim and businesslike. He sighed shortly, realizing that there was nothing he could say at this point to make her forgive him. She _would _forgive him, eventually, like she always did—but it made him angry that with her, he never could quite figure out the right thing to say to make her _happy. _Right now, the only thing that came easily to him was more well-aimed barbs. She would see his real intentions, underneath them. She had to.

"Finally we agree on something," he said smoothly. His shield of callous impassivity fell into place automatically. "We're too close to let anyone break us up. Like, say, someone like _Cullen, _maybe. And by the way, while we're on the subject… Eadric? Really? Another elf, one who was _finally _impressed by your ability to memorize old elven fairytales?" His laugh was hollow. "Talk about fucking me by proxy."

She paused, overcome with anger. He saw it, he was _sure _he did, in the way her bottom lip quivered and her nostrils flared ever-so-slightly. But she steeled her willpower and refused to take any more of his bait, to even dignify him with any real reaction.

"Just talk to him," she repeated coldly, brushing past him and following Jowan's path of retreat up the stairs.


	6. What Pride Wrought, part 3

**Umm… I know I keep saying I'll update regularly; I'm a huge liar. I promise the story's not forgotten... just slow going. At least this update is a longer one, yeah?**

**Special thanks to my friend serindrana who looked this over for me in its (much) earlier stages!**

* * *

**VI. WHAT PRIDE WROUGHT, pt 3**

Perhaps his prayers were being answered and the Maker had finally granted him mercy.

Drass had not seen the apprentice for almost a full week. Well, he had _seen_ him, but he had always had the self-control to walk away or step into the shadows before the elf saw him and started anything.

Five days of peace. Five days of self-restraint.

That incident in the classrooms should have proven something to him—he had wanted it to. He had wanted so desperately to be outraged upon hearing that Dorian had gotten away with it, and had even been _rewarded_ by being promised a Harrowing. As a full mage of the Circle, he would only grow more and more dangerous.

And yet, each time he replayed the events in his mind, anger was the farthest thing from what he felt deep inside of him, in his gut. First, of course, his templar instincts had taken over and compelled him to cleanse the area and cancel out all the hostile magic. That had been ingrained in him since the beginning of his training, the impulse to contain and protect first and foremost, but there was something _else_ there, underneath it, as he remembered the way the elf's body had fallen, the way his head had connected with the stone ground with a sickening thud. He was just so fragile, delicately framed, as if he was likely to break. Mages were like that—soft, deceptively weak.

When he had rushed to Dorian's side, it had not been his templar training. There had been nothing in his training about caring for overambitious, waif-like mage-apprentices who fell victim to their own foolishness. And _yet…_

But it didn't matter. After leaving the elf and his friend to be dealt with by the First Enchanter, he had gone directly to the chapel. He had hardly stopped praying since, even after he left the chapel and went about his duties. And when he wasn't saying prayers, he recited the Chant from memory until it became the ever-present back drop to his thoughts.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written._

Faith was the answer, the Chantry had always taught him so. If you put your faith in the Maker, you will be saved. And he _believed_ in the Maker, in Andraste, in repentance and deliverance. He truly did.

And the Maker had granted him five days, so far. Perhaps his sins _could_ be cleansed and he _could_ make it back onto the righteous path yet. Mumbling a few lines from Benedictions, he clasped the holy symbol of Andraste around his neck.

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

He would not falter. He was a templar—in fact, being a templar was all that he knew. His years spent with the Chantry had given him his strength and his willpower—eventually—and put the Maker on his side. Dorian Surana was just one mage, not even yet passed his Harrowing, no matter how wicked. He would _not _falter.

A knock at his door interrupted his meditations.

It was as if malicious demons from the Fade watched over him more closely than the Maker ever had. Standing in the threshold, the apprentice greeted him with a lopsided grin before taking a swig straight out of a wine bottle he was holding by the neck in his left hand. "Evening, ser Templar. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Of course. Of course he had not been forgiven so easily.

With an irritated hiss, Drass pulled him into his rooms and quickly shut the door. If anyone saw the apprentice skulking about up in the templar quarters, outside _his_ rooms, the rumors would be unbearable, even dangerous, for both of them. So he didn't have any choice but to get him out of the hall as soon as possible, really. It was a matter of… practicality.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Dorian leaned into him with a light-hearted laugh. The elf stood up on his toes, trying to kiss Drass's mouth—and missed, too short and unsure on his feet, and instead pressed soft lips to the stubble on Drass's chin.

Demons watching over him, indeed.

Drass took a hasty step back in surprise, steadying himself by grasping Dorian firmly by the shoulders and pushing him away, praying to Andraste for _strength. _The apprentice landed heavily on the edge of his bed, laughing as he fell, grasping onto the bottle of wine as if it was his most prized possession.

"You're not even supposed to be up here," Drass began, feeling a bit dizzy but hoping to mask it with severity. "All mages are forbidden—"

"Listen to you, as if this was the first time! What's a little trespassing between friends, hm?" Dorian asked, looking up at him, smile wide. "I won't tell if you won't. Come on, I brought wine."

He punctuated his invitation by raising the wine bottle in one hand.

"I'm fairly certain apprentices aren't allowed to take bottles of wine from the kitchens at their leisure," Drass said, crossing his arms. "You _stole_ that."

"_You_ sound surprised," Dorian laughed. "It's the good stuff, too. No point in petty theft, right? This is from Irving's special stock. It's amazing what you can sneak off with when you flirt with the serving girls. It was imported from Orlais, whatever it is. _Chardonnay, _the label says_. _It's nice. You'd like it."

"I have morning devotions very early tomorrow. We are forbidden—"

"Oh, quit it with the forbidden, would you? Do you really think a glass of wine is what's going to send the Maker over the edge and finally decide to strike you down with lightning? If he really wanted to do that he certainly passed up a good opportunity last week, didn't he? I'd take it as a sign, were I you." When Drass made no indication of changing his stance, Dorian switched his tone to a more imploring one. "Please? You know, I _have_ been drinking. If you continue to turn me down, I may begin to weep. Neither of us wants that."

But Dorian was wrong—he couldn't expect the elf to have any coherent points to make on theology. The Maker had not forgiven or overlooked his sins. He was clearly testing him, here and now. It _had _to be a test to discern the sincerity of his repentance that had put Dorian on his bed, slightly flushed from the wine, with eyes that gleamed of mischief and that smirk that spoke of both cocky self-assuranceand promise, thinly veiled desire. But oh _Maker,_ why here, where giving in would be so _easy? _Why not in a hallway, or the Great Hall, or even a shadowed alcove in one of the upper levels, where pushing Dorian back and walking away would have been the easiest thing to do?

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light…_

From the Canticle of Trials. It was only appropriate.

Dorian took another inelegant swig from the wine bottle before carefully placing it down on the edge of Drass's nightstand, his movements painstaking and deliberate as if in overcompensation. When he straightened, Drass still had not answered.

"Fine. A different approach then," he said easily, reclining on the bed and looking up at the templar with a peculiarly mischievous smile, one he had never seen before. It put him on edge—not knowing what to expect. "Since I'm feeling a little… uninhibited… I propose we play a game."

"Oh, you're feeling uninhibited just now?" Drass asked. "And what would you say you are the rest of the time? I'm not sure I want to hear what sort of game you have in mind."

Dorian shook his head slightly. "All right, even _more _uninhibited than usual. But don't fear, my dear templar. It's a fairly innocent game. We used to play it in the dormitories at night when we were children. One of us asks the other to pick, _'truth or dare.'_ Then you either have to do the dare, or answer the question honestly, no matter _what._"

"You came to me so you could play children's games?" Drass asked, nonplussed.

Dorian chuckled, letting himself fall into Drass's pillows, and closed his eyes. "I came to you so I could get off. You're proving difficult to convince, so I have to improvise."

"And if I agree, and I dare you to leave, will you really go?"

Dorian laughed, again, and he sounded genuinely amused. "You're clever. Of course I would, those are the rules. Except now that I know your plans, I'll only pick truth."

As he spoke, the apprentice sat up again and scooted back so he was leaning against the headboard of the bed, his gaze set on Drass, pleading. When the templar only stared back at him from across the room, unmoved and unconvinced, Dorian gave him an exaggerated pout.

"But won't that be fun?" he asked. "I'll tell you absolutely anything you'd like to know. Think of the possibilities!"

It was impressive how earnest that look in his eyes was, as if he really did just innocently want to spend some time trading stories with Drass. Of course, the likelihood that he would reveal anything he didn't want to seemed low. But then again, glancing to the nightstand, the level in that wine bottle seemed low, too, and Dorian was only mortal. The opportunity to grill him for a change, to expose him and make _him _the uncomfortable one was too tempting to pass up. Drass sighed heavily in resignation. Dorian _knew_ that, didn't he? The elf was _good._

And the Maker certainly was not making this easy.

_I shall weather the storm,_ Drass thought._ I shall endure._

"I've already been playing your games for months, so one more can hardly hurt," he said after a last moment of hesitation, shifting his weight slightly. He kept his arms crossed—and his distance. "But I get to begin. Do you pick truth or dare?"

Dorian made no argument. "Truth, my friend. Ask away."

Silence stretched out between them. Drass wasn't going to waste this opportunity asking Dorian what his favorite type of tea was or what kind of books he usually preferred to read in the library. He had to ask something _significant, _something that might actually be enlightening, and in a way that was likely to garner an answer that wasn't either entirely flippant or an outright lie.

"What do you remember, from outside the Tower?" he asked finally. "Were you very young when you were brought here?"

"There _is_ nothing I remember but the Tower," Dorian said readily, his answer coming far too quickly. "I wasn't even three when I was brought here, or so Deidre tells me. I hardly even remember _that._"

The templar frowned. "That can't be. You want to get out so badly, and yet you don't know what there even _is_ outside? You must remember something. There must be _something _pulling at you."

Dorian breathed in deeply, glancing towards the ceiling, as if deep in thought. He blinked, once or twice, a ghost of a smile at his own thoughts twitching at the corners of his lips before his eyes flicked back to settle on Drass. "I remember a tree. Or I think I do. Perhaps I only _want _to."

"That's all? A _tree?_ There are trees all around the Tower. Your teachers take you apprentices out sometimes, there are gardens…"

"No, not like that at all," he murmured, drifting off easily into the depths of his memories. "I believe there was this large tree where they took me from. Just the one, and it was… well, I don't remember it, not really. But sometimes I dream about branches, reaching up towards the sky, rustling in the breeze. The smell of the air, like… like nothing I've breathed here. There's so much salt in the air here, and this is… different. I must have stared at those branches for hours, at some point. I read in a book once that elves in cities plant a tree in their Alienage, and that's when the image clicked—it's a _vhenadahl. _And then… there's also…"

He stopped, his voice trailing off into silence. His breathing was slow, calm, and he seemed more relaxed than Drass had ever seen him before. His gaze had slid away from the templar as he was speaking, becoming unfocused, and now it seemed he had become entirely lost in his own thoughts.

"Go on," Drass said, with genuine interest. "I agreed to humor you, so you might as well give me the full answer. Tell me the rest."

Dorian's eyes snapped back to Drass almost immediately, and his eyebrows shot up. He looked for a moment as if he was going to reflexively spit back something petty like, _oh yeah, and if I don't? _But instead, his expression calmed and he nodded shortly. "It's just… I also remember… sounds. Laughter, children's voices, a… a woman humming… and being lifted up, in warm—warm arms…"

"Your family," Drass said quietly. "You want to find them don't you? If you could leave?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Dorian said. "For all I know my mother left me under that damn tree for the templars to find when she realized I was a mage. They didn't want me enough to protect me so I don't want them, either. And I'm certainly not wanted _here, _so why shouldn't I want to get out?"

"Well, I suppose the Chantry _does_ want you… you just don't appreciate the reason why," Drass pointed out, not intending his words to sound as snide as they likely did. He almost felt guilty at the flicker of distress that flashed behind Dorian's eyes at the thought. All the drink had made it harder for him to keep his emotions so tightly contained. It would have been unfair if Drass didn't feel as if this was the first time the playing field had truly been tipped in his favor. Still, he would keep a mind to be gentle. Spite was Dorian's expertise, not his.

His observation made the elf laugh, in any case, once he had gotten a hold on that flash of despair, though a note of bitterness still rang true.

"So I believe I've answered your question to satisfaction, which means that it's my turn now," Dorian said. "What will it be, ser knight? Truth or dare?"

Drass nodded. Fair was fair, after all. Which only left the decision: Accepting a dare would likely lead to the sort of situation he was trying to avoid, so there was really only one safe choice. He didn't think there was much Dorian could ask him that would be more damaging than what he already knew.

"I choose truth."

He expected the elf would be disappointed, but instead his face lit up, bitterness replaced easily with that familiar scheming glee.

"A wonderful choice!" He almost sang the words, a delighted drawl, and nothing could keep the word _demonic _from flashing through Drass's mind. "Tell me, then: What dirty things do you think about when you touch yourself, all alone at night?"

The brashness of the question drew a choked sound of surprise from Drass. If that unabashed leer was anything to judge from, Dorian had been planning this question from the beginning. The _bastard._

"I know I can't have been the first to catch your eye, just the most cunning. I've always imagined that all that repression must stir up some shocking, depraved desires in you templars," he went on, leaning forward just a fraction. "What is it you want, when you lie awake in the dark, I wonder? Voyeurism is a given, I would think. And all of that guilt-tripping you do, maybe you desperately desire to be tied up and punished? Unless you're the more vindictive type—whips, chains, gags, blindfolds. We could go there, if you'd like. But am I enough, even, or do you dream about threesomes, whole orgies with nubile, innocent Chantry sisters? Or maybe you're the type for fantasy—perhaps you'd prefer roleplaying Andraste and Maferath, _after_ he finds out she's left him for the Maker?"

The blush that shot to Drass's cheeks and ears was immediate and hot, much to the apprentice's visible amusement. There was embarrassing prying, and then there was _this. _He tried desperately to recall a verse from the Chant that might be of use to him here, but he wasn't sure the Maker had thought to cover this situation.

"What kind of questions are those?" he asked instead, tersely. "And I thought you could only ask _one_."

"Just giving you a little prompting," the elf said, a giggle edging into his voice. "If you ask nicely, I might even be persuaded to make dreams come true. We mages can do some _fantastic _things, you know."

"I've changed my mind," Drass snapped, his face still warm. He wasn't sure what had gotten to him more, the images Dorian had painted for him or the fact the things he _truly_ wanted were far too tame to admit in the face of that expectant _look:_ Love. Closeness. A bed partner who didn't immediately mock him given half a chance. "Come up with a dare instead. And nothing so… ridiculous, or this ends here and I'm throwing you out."

"Leave it to a templar to suck all of the fun out of the game," Dorian pouted, but settled back without further protest, patting the mattress to his left. "But have it your way. I dare you to come over here. That's it, just sit on your bed with me. You can even keep your pants on… for now. But only if you really want to."

_How generous, _Drass thought, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mild vexation. He crossed the distance between them and sat down at Dorian's left side, staying mindful to maintain several inches between them. He refused to even turn to _look_ at the elf, who predictably shifted closer, one hand sliding to the templar's waist as he twisted around to straddle him. His other hand was braced against the headboard behind Drass's head, and Dorian grinned down at him.

"You know, I never promised you that _I _would keep my clothes on," he started, reaching up to the laces of his robes.

Drass's breath caught almost immediately, and he shut his eyes. _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. _

He could smell the wine on Dorian's breath, see the glassiness in his eyes. _Physically_, it wasn't very hard to catch him by the shoulders and push him bodily away, throwing him off and pinning him back against the stone where the bed met the wall. But willpower—that it _did_ take, and in spades. The heat and closeness, the way which the apprentice's body fit so perfectly against his own, had sent a familiar, delicious jolt straight through his core, and he found himself holding back an involuntary shudder. It _had_ been some time.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me…_

"But isn't it my turn again? I did what you asked," Drass said, his voice stiff. It was more of an observation than a question, and Dorian glowered back at him in response. "So let's have it, then. Another truth. Or perhaps a dare…?"

The apprentice pulled himself out of the templar's grip with a soft groan of displeasure. "I haven't given up quite yet. Truth."

Drass had to raise the stakes, then, if he really wanted to seize this opportunity. The only way he could think to even attempt to do so was to turn the tables back on him, to use Dorian's own tactics against him.

"What about you, then?" Drass asked, trying to adopt that smugly interested calm that Dorian so excelled at. "Is this your ultimate fantasy right now—drunk and seducing a templar? Or is there something else you want more, when _you _are alone at night?"

"Of course this is my ultimate fantasy, as you can see, I am perfectly content right now," Dorian answered wryly. "What could a mage possibly want more than his own personal templar?"

"I thought you had to tell the _truth,_" Drass reminded him. "_'No matter what,'_ you said."

"You're right. I suppose I would be a bit happier if there were three blonde elven women in tight leather dancing around us," he said brightly, with false, inexpertly exaggerated vigor. "That always cheers me up, doesn't it you?"

Drass snorted softly and crossed his arms, looking away from Dorian with as much casual disregard as he could muster. "You don't get another dare out of me until you stop lying," he said matter-of-factly. "And I can sit here all night, or at least until you pass out."

"Are you sure your innocent Chantry ears are prepared for the answer, Ser Drass? Now you actually _want_ me to relate to you in detail each of my sexual fantasies?" Dorian said, the drunken half-giggle returning to his voice.

"No, but I am going to sit here in great interest as you continue to try to squirm your way _out _of doing so," Drass answered, a grin of his own spreading across his face. It was nearly involuntary, the delight he felt in the way Dorian blinked back at him, slow and speechless. "The great, shameless Dorian Surana refuses to tell me about his deepest sexual desires—what could _possibly _be so embarrassing?"

The elf closed his jaw with an audible click and swallowed. He looked pale, almost ashen. "I am not _ashamed. _If you must know, I'll tell you. But I'll also deny it in the morning, mark my words." Drass nodded expectantly at him, which only made Dorian's glower deepen as he spoke. "I have a suspicion, however ridiculous…"

"Yes…?"

He swallowed again. Drass couldn't help the thrilled satisfaction that flared in his chest at the wariness in Dorian's eyes as he forced out the words, as if they hurt his throat. "…that someday, somewhere out there, is a person who will fuck me and I'll just feel… really _complete, _instead of—of—"

"Empty?" Drass provided, his eyebrows raising in surprise. Dorian's face immediately twisted into a scowl.

"I do not feel _empty!_" he nearly shouted, before catching himself and forcing his voice into a fast whisper. He sounded as if his words were getting away from him, tumbling out of his mouth one after the other almost beyond his control, riling him up in the process. "Sex serves my purposes quite well, and I'll have you know I enjoy it quite a bit. It's the only currency I have in this damn place—people think that because I'm short, or maybe because I'm an elf, and just an apprentice, and _pretty, _that I'm inconsequential, that I don't _matter—_but people want me, for the same reasons, I can get what I want from people. Ever since the first time, I knew—"

"The first time?" Drass prompted as Dorian's voice broke off again, his face an unreadable mixture of anger and something else, not quite disgust, but maybe closer to disdain. Suddenly, he felt that unfamiliar feeling swelling inside of him, same as when he had watched Dorian tumble down to the hard stone floor. _Concern. _Drass clenched his teeth and thumbed the holy symbol of Andraste around his neck. "What about the first time?"

"No, it's _my_ turn now," Dorian said harshly."And I want you to answer me this time. Tell me your fantasy. However strange or embarrassing, I want to hear it."

"You're not even going to ask me to choose truth or dare?"

"No." His eyes were cold and Drass realized it would be pointless to argue with him. "If I don't get to back out of questions, neither do you. And I know what you're going to ask me next, so you had better answer the question, if you want mine."

Drass sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking it over in his mind, trying to formulate the most complete answer. Fair _was _fair. "What I want, more than anything…"

It was hard. Dorian was still _glaring _at him, watching closely as if to savor every tiny sign of discomfort. But it wasn't so much what the truth was, as what it _wasn't. _His answer wasn't going to satisfy the hunger in that glare. "All I truly wish for, Surana, is the chance for a _family_. A wife. And maybe a few children… I always imagine a boy and a girl. When I was still training in the abbey, I knew a woman, one of the girls training to become a Sister—"

"I asked for your _sexual _fantasies, not the story of your sappy daydreams," Dorian interrupted. Drass let out a frustrated breath.

"You asked what I thought about at night. This is it," Drass said. If it wasn't the filth Dorian had hoped for, that was too bad—it was the _truth._ "Her name was Lissa. We had both been left to the Chantry as children, but we dreamed of… escape."

"If you think for one moment you can _bond _with me over how you understand how I feel, then grew to _accept _it—"

"I _never _accepted what Lissa did," Drass hissed, his throat tightening as he lunged for Dorian, grabbing the collar of his robes. He thought the apprentice might have pulled away in fear if nothing else, but he remained still, smiling ever-so-slightly as the templar leaned in, speaking with a fevered zeal. "We were teenagers when we tried to stow away in one of the supply carriages together. We were found, of course, and beaten for our folly. I thought, after that, that I had better make peace with my lot. I resigned myself to saying my prayers, attending to my lessons, but Lissa…"

The memory of it left him cold, disgusted, tense, and Dorian watched each emotion pass over his face with great interest. "They said it was because she wasn't _suited_ to the devotional life of a Sister. They caught her behind the barn one evening, with a stable hand—the Mother said the Maker forgave all who repented, but Lissa told her… told her she'd rather rot in the Void with the stable hand than spend another day in the abbey. The next morning, she was gone. They both were. Later, I heard from one of the other girls that she had been with child."

"So you _do _understand then," Dorian said as Drass's grip loosened and he finally let go of his collar. "You're jealous of her! Because she got _away_."

"No. Because she—she left me _alone_," Drass said slowly, shaking his head. "I suppose I never forgave her for that. I… I haven't even spoken of her since the day she left the abbey."

"You wish you had fucked her, don't you?" Dorian said, excited, his eyes dancing as they searched Drass's face. "You wish _you'd_ gotten her in the hay behind that barn and walked out with her, _don't_ you?"

Drass shook his head again, this time with more conviction. That had been _years _ago, and he had buried it under so much prayer and devotion that sometimes he could honestly believe that he only thought of her during the quietest, darkest nights, for the same reasons he found himself… fond of the apprentice sitting next to him on his bed. Demons. Temptation. A test of the Maker on his will.

The memory of her dark curls, free to fall around her shoulders as she and the stable hand strutted their way through the front gates at almost the crack of dawn, of the way her hips had swayed with his arm around them, disappearing down the dirt road—they were _memories, _striking and vivid, but nothing more. And he wasn't going to let Dorian turn this around on him.

He had another question to ask, in any case.

"She walked out on the people who raised her when no one else would. She was ungrateful," Drass said, fully aware that Dorian could sense just how wooden and rehearsed those words were. It didn't matter. Before the elf could finish taking a breath to respond, to catch him in his lie, he pushed on. "That's all there is to it. So now why don't you tell me about the… first time?"

Immediately Dorian exhaled sharply, the glimmering excitement in his expression wilting out of him almost as quickly as it had come. But even he had admitted he was _expecting _the question. It took him a moment, but eventually he gave a tiny nod of acceptance.

"All right," he murmured. "It's my turn, then. I suppose that's only fair. You've been playing along."

Drass's jaw almost fell open. The apprentice's eyes slid shut either from contemplation or drunkenness, and Drass could hardly believe he was giving in with such ease. Honesty wasn't usually what he dealt in, after all. When Dorian finally began to speak, his voice was low, the emotion predictably pressed out of it.

"There was a mage. When I was fifteen. He must have been… I'm not sure. A few years older than I am now, certainly. He had been Harrowed for a couple of years then. Restless, I suppose. He said I was mature, and I liked that, so we used to… spend time together. I liked _him_, quite a bit, at the time."

When he opened his eyes again, Dorian was focused intently on something off in the distance. But when Drass turned to look there was only the bare wall on the other side of the room in front them.

"_He_ was the first," he continued. "The first man, I mean. Maker, I hardly remember it. It's been so long, and with all that wine…"

He waved his hand lazily, a movement meant to have flourish but instead ended up more like an aimless flop. He let out a tired breath. That pang of concern shot through Drass's chest again, and he reached out to touch him, lightly stroking the back of his head.

"Well, if you've had too much wine, we could end the game here," he said, the tenderness in his voice surprising even him. He had meant it almost as the vaguest taunt, with the intention of goading the rest of the story out of Dorian despite his reluctance, but even to his own ears it sounded… oddly affectionate. "If you're getting tired, maybe you should return to your dormitory…"

"No," the elf said, glancing fiercely to Drass. He knew the complacency had been an act, a cover for something else. "I'm not too tired. If you want to know, then I'll tell you. All the little details that you could never imagine—you can have them all. The way something caught in my throat, the first time he kissed me, and pushed me down on his bed and said _Dorian, you're so fucking pretty. _And then it wasn't long before there was _really _something caught in my throat."

The elf still smiled, wicked, with some other barely contained bitterness behind his eyes that Drass was hard-pressed to identify. "His hands—he studied herbalism. Calluses on his fingertips, from digging and working in the dirt. Everything about him, about the way we fucked, was a little rough. Even the way he would always kiss me, just before he took me, to keep me from crying out and waking the other mages. The way that, after he came, I would… I would always try to talk to him, and he never had anything to say to me, then. And he wouldn't until the next time."

"I'm sorry, that sounds… awful," Drass said quietly, his thumb tracing what he hoped were comforting patterns on Dorian's neck. "He used you. He… took advantage of your affection."

Dorian pulled away from the templar, as if his fingers were hot pokers burning through his skin. His eyebrows rose in skepticism.

"By whose definition of the phrase? And why are you _sorry? _I got exactly what I asked for, even if it wasn't what I expected. Eventually I realized that I controlled _him_, in a way. You should've seen his face when I said I was done with him. He was _shocked, _and I thought it was just wonderful_._ That makes me the awful one, doesn't it?" Dorian said. The wicked grin was gone, but the reflection of it still lingered in his eyes. "It's just that… you never really forget your first no matter how hard you try—_do_ you?"

Drass's expression became surly for a moment, but it didn't hold. He was too used to the elf's underhanded barbs to be too deeply affected by such an obvious jab at his insecurities about their relationship. He had asked Andraste for forgiveness, he was resisting _now—_mostly—was that not what mattered? It was better, in any case, to respond in kind. "So you wish to forget him, then?"

"There's no one I particularly wish to remember," Dorian answered, with an air of drunken grandiosity that Drass found hard to entirely believe. "There's no use in holding onto moments in the past."

"But you can't help remembering him, can you? All those little _details._"

"No more than you will ever be able to forget me," Dorian said with a self-satisfied grin. He glanced up at Drass, who looked back at him with his mouth set in a concerned half-frown, no trace of the chagrin he had hoped to inspire. Instead, that Chantry-ingrained desire to _protect _was creeping into his expression_. _

"Tell me his name."

"What?"

For a moment, it was Dorian caught entirely off-guard, staring back at Drass in starry-eyed confusion. The templar's eyes were soft now, compassionate, as he reached out tentatively and traced the edge of one of the elf's ears to the sensitive pointed tip. Dorian's sharp intake of breath was probably involuntary, and for a moment he seemed entirely disabled—vulnerable, defenseless. "I don't believe he didn't use you—or hurt you. You were young. Tell me the bastard's name. I'd like to have a word with him."

Dorian was silent for a moment of ragged breathing, before he rolled his eyes and swatted the older man's hand away.

"Maybe I—maybe I _wanted_ to be hurt. Did you ever think of that?" he said shortly. "He never made me do anything I didn't want to. I practically had to seduce _him, _because who wants a bratty fifteen-year-old elf falling in love with you? And I did it—I made him want me."

"But you said he was… rough. You said he was—"

"Yes, that's what I said," Dorian said evenly, biting his bottom lip with the slightest mischievous smirk at the templar's expression. "Surely you don't think I sleep with _you _because it's all rose petals and rainbows."

"Maker," Drass breathed, closing his eyes. "I didn't—have _I_ been hurting you?"

The apprentice only cracked an even wider grin, and turned away to laugh.

"Dorian, I am sorry if I…"

"Don't." His laughter died abruptly and he turned back to look Drass in the eye, once again wearing his impossible mask of calm. "Don't ever pity me. I'm not broken. I'm very happy, in fact—I've learned quite a bit since then. In only a few years I've graduated from Harrowed mages to errant templars. And I think I've done quite well. At least now there are a few more things I can control. You. Sibyl and Jowan. That dullard Cullen."

"Does that make it feel better?" Drass asked, a strange flatness in his voice as he turned Dorian's story over in his mind. "Do you feel less trapped now, here, with me?"

"At least I know you're trapped, too."

"I already told you, I was trapped into this life by the Chantry before you were born," Drass said. "_Tell me._ Does manipulating me make you feel free? Do you feel _better?_"

"I'm winning," Dorian said hoarsely, his teeth clenched in a defensive snarl. "I'm _winning._"

"That doesn't mean 'yes.'"

Dorian pulled away entirely, then, and stood. He grasped the neck of the wine bottle as he passed the nightstand and strode away, putting as much of a distance between himself and Drass as he could, keeping his back to the templar. He drank deeply. "No, then. If you must know, it never feels better for long. I know I'm still trapped. So that's why I continue, try _harder._"

It was that admission, not the wine he had swallowed, that burned on the way down, settling unpleasantly in his stomach. Nineteen years of manipulation and studying and being the damn happiest person he knew how to be, fueled by the sheer power of his spite, and _succeeding _in all of those—only to realize that it didn't make a damn bit of difference. How could it _not_ sting?

"You've gotten enough answers out of me. Truth or dare," the elf said finally.

"Dare," Drass answered, a tiredness in his voice that went deeper than physical fatigue. They had both had their fill of _truths, _this night.

"Kiss me," Dorian said softly. "So I can feel better. Just for now."

The templar sighed deeply, covering his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes. _My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride, _he recited, mouthing the words behind his hands. Silently, he begged to Andraste to show him guidance, begged her to give him strength. When a moment passed and he felt no less weary, the sound of Dorian's request still in his ears, he let himself sag into the mattress, defeated.

"You have to. I dared you," the elf said, drinking again. "I told you the truth. So you don't have a choice."

He was right, of course. Those were the _rules, _and Andraste had offered him no solace, the Maker would give him no reprieve. And a few feet away, this apprentice was asking him for help, to make him feel _better_. Suddenly, it felt just as wrong to deny Dorian as it would to do as he wished.

The springs of the mattress creaked as Drass got to his feet. Still turned away, Dorian gave the stone wall in front of him a sour, triumphant smile. He lifted the bottle to his lips once again, tipping his head back, but only a tiny trickle of wine was left inside. He made a noise of frustration, swinging his hand down to throw the bottle away, but Drass was behind him now, his body pressed close, and he caught Dorian's wrist halfway through its arc.

He began to sway, then, his knees buckling as the world seemed to tilt beneath him. His hand loosened involuntarily and the bottle clattered to ground, but he did not fall—Drass's other arm wrapped around him, steadying him, the warmth and suddenness of the contact was overwhelming.

The elf twisted in his arms, stretching to stand on his toes, reaching up to run his fingers through Drass's hair, tugging the templar down to meet him. Their lips met clumsily, and Dorian tasted of sweet wine. It seemed as if Drass had finally given in: the tension in his body relaxed even as he supported Dorian's weight, and after only a moment he found himself taking a step backwards and pulling them both back down onto the bed.

The sound Dorian made could only have been described as a giggle_, _light and careless, as they fell into the mattress in a tangle of limbs and creaking springs.

"I knew I could get you to see reason," Dorian murmured, the gleam in his eyes somewhere between stupid and elated. He leaned in to kiss the templar again, once, then began to trace his way down his jaw line and neck, licking and kissing until he found the edge of a collarbone peeking out from under the fabric of his shirt. When the other man let out a low moan of approval, Dorian slid his hands lower, dipping his fingers into the waistband of Drass's trousers.

"No," Drass managed to gasp out, his breath coming harsh and uneven, and he pushed the apprentice's hands away. "Not tonight, when you're—like this…"

"_Still? _Don't you—I _want_—"

"No. All you asked for was a kiss." Dorian kept his eyes closed, his face stiff with barely contained frustration. Drass couldn't help but smile to himself—Dorian was no good at playing within the rules, only at bending them. But for him, that was all he knew. There was only one thing left he could do, and he couldn't help asking the question with the slightest feeling of amusement at the elf's expense. "So… truth or dare?"

Dorian's eyes flew open and stared angrily back at him. "Go ahead—dare me," he spat, expecting—finally wanting—to be told to leave, as he had been promised, and tried, with great difficulty, to disentangle himself from Drass before the other man even had a chance to answer. Dorian's movements were clumsy and exaggerated, but he managed to roll over and wriggle to the edge of the bed before Drass easily reached out and grabbed his forearm, ending his struggle, firmly but gently. Dorian shot a glare at him over his shoulder, his eyes squinted in anger but glassy, unfocused.

"Stay. Just for a little while, and rest," Drass said.

"I didn't come here to _cuddle."_

"Well, maybe that's all I want, for once."

Dorian gave him another look of complete exasperation, before shoving Drass's hands away and slipping his legs over the edge of the bed. When he moved to stand, he instead wound up hunched forward with both hands planted firmly on the mattress at his sides, as if to steady himself, breathing deeply.

"Did you hear me? I said I _want _you," Drass said urgently. "Just stay. That's all I ask."

The templar watched, chewing nervously at his bottom lip, as Dorian sighed softly, his arms slowly moving to hug himself around his middle. He began to shiver, shaking visibly.

It might not necessarily have been a sign that Dorian had been convinced by the templar's plea that he began to sag sideways, retreating back to the pillows and the safety of the bed. It was possible he was just trying to mitigate the unsteady, drunken spin of the world by lying back down. Whatever the reason, Dorian settled into the bed, somewhat grudgingly, his eyes squeezed shut.

Drass found he was strangely glad—comforted—that Dorian had decided to stay, in any case.

"Don't worry. I'll wake you in time to sneak back before anyone notices you're missing. If you tried to get back to the apprentice quarters now in your current state, you'd probably wake up every templar in Ferelden anyway." Drass pulled the bed sheets over Dorian and began to tuck him in almost affectionately, adding, "And make sure you drink lots of water tomorrow morning. You're going to need it."

The apprentice grimaced and made a noncommittal grumbling noise in response, and Drass chuckled to himself. It was good to just have someone _there _with him, in a way he hadn't really felt in years. "What? Did you think young mages were the only ones who ever felt rebellious and stole wine from the kitchens when no one was looking?"

When Dorian gave no answer, Drass let out a deep sigh and propped his head up in one hand, his eyes set on the sleeping apprentice.

For a long time he had felt certain that Dorian had simply been sent by the Maker to torture him. But now, he was beginning to feel a certain sympathy for this mage he had previously regarded as the embodied punishment for his personal demons. It wasn't that the Maker hated him—their weaknesses were just miraculously compatible. Him, wanting someone, and Dorian… wanting someone to want him, and willing to do anything to make them.

But watching him sleep, the elf actually looked quite peaceful—the lines of his face and his usual grin, even the area around his eyes, all smoothed away to into almost angelic softness. He looked just as fragile now as he had a week and a half ago, sprawled gracelessly across the floor after falling from great height, and _innocent_, too, as laughable as the notion seemed. Drass tugged the blankets a little farther up his chest, his hand straying to stroke the younger man's cheek gently.

"_O Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights_," Drass murmured under his breath, the words escaping his lips barely audible. Dorian sighed and stirred slightly, curling unconsciously towards the sound of Drass's voice, his warmth. He looked… content. "_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, and make me to rest in the warmest places._"

Drass leaned towards him and placed a gentle kiss to his temple, just below his hairline. Dorian Surana was _not_ a demon, then, he decided. Perhaps he was just as haunted by his own.


	7. What Pride Wrought, part 4

**I'm not entirely convinced many people are still reading this, but oh well - I'll just continue one with my ever-sporadic updates in any case! The next chapter (or two, depending on how I break it up) are going to be big... everything picks up and the shit really starts to hit the fan from here on out.**

* * *

**VII. WHAT PRIDE WROUGHT, pt 4**

Drass had been right. The next day, his head sung with an exquisite sort of pain, and even his own usually rather light footfalls against the cool stone ground sounded thunderous in his ears as he snuck down from the templar quarters. There was a back way, mostly disused, that would be deserted this early in the morning—he had discovered it with Sibyl and Jowan years ago, and kept their knowledge of it a close secret, lest the Knight-Commander see fit to tighten it up. Once he had made it to the lower levels, he could resort to his usual "drink of water" excuse if anyone saw him.

Which, Drass had reminded him with an all-too-pleased smirk as he left, was apparently just about the only thing that could help to ease the pounding in his skull that didn't require explaining to an enchanter with the ability to brew a hangover cure just what he had been doing with a bottle of the First Enchanter's best wine. Perhaps next time, he would be smart enough to steal said hangover cure _in addition to _the alcohol. And he had thought himself so clever, yesterday evening!

Well, it wasn't like he'd had much of a chance to gain experience. The last time he had managed to knick a bottle of wine—from the regular stores, that time—it had wound up shared among half the boys in the dormitory, and no matter how much they had giggled or fooled around, he doubted a single one of them had actually been drunk, let alone gotten a hangover the next morning.

But this, _oh_ Maker, _this. _It was Andraste's holy funeral pyre roaring inside of his head and screaming to get out.

He crawled into the safety and warmth of his bed just as the first of the more morning-inclined apprentices were beginning to stir. Curling into a ball, he pulled the covers clear over his head and tried not to whimper. Although he could still hear the rustling of the other apprentices and the tell-tale sound of the occasional templar on patrol in the halls, mercifully, he drifted back into sweet unconsciousness rather quickly.

It _couldn't_ have been only moments later that he woke up to the sound of Jowan shouting in his ears, because as his eyes flew open the first thing he noticed—after he was done shouting back and flailing in surprise—was that most of the beds were empty and made. The entire dormitory was empty, save for the one or two scattered apprentices and _Jowan_, looming over him. Still, it _seemed_ like it had only been moments ago that he'd fallen asleep, and he felt just about as well-rested.

"You might not have to come to lessons since you've got your Harrowing set, but you still need to wake up, you know," he said. "You're supposed to be studying. And you promised _weeks_ ago you'd help me with my primal spells. And considering you botched my chance to practice during lessons, you _owe _me."

Dorian stared up at Jowan, a look of abject horror on his face, and he couldn't even manage to get out a quip about how Jowan was beginning to sound like Enchanter Deidre before groaning and ducking back under the covers. The bed shifted under him as Jowan climbed up, kneeling next to him and tugging the sheets back. Sans blanket, Dorian simply covered his eyes with his arm. With a grunt of frustration, Jowan delivered a light smack to his head, and Dorian hissed and shriveled away, rolling onto his side and pulling his knees up nearly to his chin.

"What's the matter with you?" Jowan asked, peering down at him.

"It _hurts_."

Jowan sighed in disbelief and sat back. "You have to get up. You've already slept through breakfast, it's almost midday now. Sibyl sent me for you, so if you don't get out of bed, she'll be mad at _me._"

"Better you than me," he grumbled. After lying still for a beat of silence, he added, "Aren't _you_ still mad at both of us?"

"If I was going to stay angry with you and Sibyl every time you ignored me to fight with each other, I would have to find new friends," Jowan said reasonably. "I suppose I'm too used to you two to bother."

Dorian considered this for a moment, supposing that it really was a rather nice sentiment from Jowan, which only served to remind him of Sibyl's _theory _about Jowan's secret affections. His attempt to vocalize the sentiment ended up as more of a huff of displeasure, sounding something vaguely like, "_Nnnnggf._"

He felt Jowan's hand on his shoulder, gentle now, as he tried to ease him over onto his back. "Come on, Dorian. Are you okay? Do I need to get a healer? Are you sick?"

"No, no, I'm… I'll survive," he finally enunciated, slowly removing his arm from his face and squinting up at Jowan. "I'm just… a little bit hung over. Please, don't tell Sibyl."

Jowan patted his friend on the shoulder, nodding in understanding now, and gave him an encouraging smile. "Of course. Our little secret. Well, us, and anyone else who _looks_ at you."

"We'll tell them I was just up all night having lots of wild sex," he said, swallowing the indignity of the fact that the reality was much closer to the exact opposite. There was a tense pause, as Jowan just gave him a slightly worried, unimpressed look that seemed to say, _well, maybe _you'll_ tell them that,_ and Dorian sighed. "And as much as I'd love to help you with primal spells today, do I have to remind you that I'm not to cast any major spells without an enchanter present to supervise me?"

"Don't you go citing _rules _at me, as if you care about them," Jowan said. "You don't have to actually cast anything yourself, anyway. Just set me straight when I've got something wrong."

"Jowan, if I go with you and have to watch you starting fires or shooting lightning or playing with _bright, cold_ snow, my head might very well explode."

"But you _promised,_" Jowan argued, and it was almost a whine. Combined with the faint ringing in his ears, it was enough to make him wince again. "_And_ Sibyl said if you didn't, she would give you a piece of her mind. So which do you prefer—lightning, or the sound of Sibyl screeching at you?"

Well, that decided things quickly enough. He groaned again. It didn't make him _happy. _ "All right. I'll be up in a minute."

* * *

There was still space left in the center practice area of the classrooms when Jowan lead Dorian in, not too long after the end of the midday meal. The templar on guard shifted meaningfully as they passed, however, and stopped them before they had even made it fully into the room.

"You," the templar said sternly, pointing a finger at Dorian. "What are you doing in here? You're not allowed to be doing magic without an enchanter present."

"I'm not doing magic," Dorian said easily, gesturing to Jowan. "He is. I'm just here to watch."

The templar glanced Jowan over skeptically, squinting at both apprentices through his visor, as if they were already up to something illicit. When he could discern no evidence of foul play, however, he nodded curtly. "Well… carry on, then. I'll be watching you."

"Really?" Dorian said, gasping theatrically, slapping a hand over his mouth. He turned and leaned dramatically towards Jowan, whispering loudly. "Did you hear that, Jowan? A _templar _is going to be watching _us mages!_ Can you imagine?"

Jowan smiled despite himself. "I'm sure I've never heard of such a thing."

"Truly a revolutionary thinker, he," Dorian agreed airily, pushing past the templar with a raised eyebrow. Stepping into the cleared practice area, he pulled up a chair and sat himself down. The templar had turned, his gaze following Jowan as he joined his friend.

Jowan glanced back at the templar briefly, and swallowed, before looking to Dorian. "I thought we might start with lightning spells, since those are your best ones."

There was a tinny snort from behind him.

"I think not," the templar said. "I don't want to be carrying a couple of twitching apprentices out of here. I don't have the patience for you whelps that Drass does. If I see so much as a spark, you're both going straight to the Knight-Commander for punishment this time."

"You heard the honorable knight," Dorian said brightly, but his eyes were cold as steel. "Templar armor conducts lightning far too well, and he's frightened. How about we start with your rock armor, then? Nice and safe and simple."

Jowan nodded, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders back, mentally preparing himself for the spell. Dorian watched, arms crossed, as his friend muttered the incantation under his breath and a weak burst of energy rolled over his body, forming a weak layer of the intended magical armor that flickered for a moment, before seeming to melt off of him, ineffective.

Jowan sighed, dejected.

Dorian leaned forward, his chin rested in his hands. "It's like you're scared you're actually going to do it right. Don't hold back, and you _will_."

"I'm not scared," Jowan said. "I'm just—being cautious."

"It's rock armor. You're not going to hurt anyone. Just—let the spell do what it wants to. Watch." Dorian closed his eyes and spoke the incantation as casually as if he was reciting a recipe to his favorite stew. His skin began to ripple and glow, becoming visibly _harder,_ and he rapped his knuckles forcefully against the side of the nearest bookcase, smirking slightly. "You could punch me right now and I wouldn't even feel it."

"See, you scare me when you say things like 'let the spell do what it wants to.' That's how you end up falling of statues of ancient magi into a storm of lightning."

Dorian shrugged. "You can spend all your time being afraid of yourself, or you can learn to control the talents you were born with. Either way, they're not going to go away."

Jowan nodded, glancing once again to the templar, still sternly watching them from his post against the wall behind Dorian. His friend had a point—he wasn't going to stop being a mage. But it didn't seem fair that Dorian and Sibyl could embrace it so easily, as if magic really _was _their nature, while for Jowan it was this mysterious power that he felt was as likely to keep him at its whim as he was to master it.

Why couldn't he grasp onto that easy control that Dorian had, that complete comfort in his powers that let him to take the risks that both dismayed and impressed their teachers?

He pursed his lips, tried to speak the ancient words with as much force as he could muster, calling all the power within him into the mix. This _had _to work. He'd been struggling with this spell since the first lesson in which it had been introduced, and he had watched each of his classmates master it one by one—Dorian and Sibyl almost from day one.

As his skin glowed, the magical sheets of protective rock forming over his body, he thought for a moment he had gotten it—until they began to jut out, jagged and malformed, not smooth and durable as he had envisioned them. With a frown, he shook his arms out, releasing his power, and the slate shattered, falling to the ground at his feet and disappearing.

There were ways to learn this that were _quicker. _He was sure there were.

"I'm hopeless. That was as not-held-back as I know how to _be._"

"Anger only helps if you channel it the right way," Dorian answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Otherwise it just makes you lose focus, makes the spell as tumultuous as your emotions. You need to be confident—not scared, and not frustrated with yourself."

"Easy for you to say," Jowan muttered. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I need more help than you can give me."

Dorian stood up and strode over to him, dismissing Jowan's words with a wave of his hand. "If Sibyl commanded you practice, then you had better practice. Lest she find us slacking off and begin to _shriek._"

"You know, Sibyl _also_ said that you had something to tell me."

Dorian stopped short. "Did she?"

"Yeah—something important. So what is it?"

He crossing his arms again, giving Jowan a rare look that almost qualified as serious. "Stop putting yourself down, and stop trying to change the subject. Come on. Deep breaths. You're a _mage. _You were born to do this, for better or for worse. And you know me, I always say _for better _when it comes to magic."

"For better." Jowan shrugged, sending another feeble burst of magical energy down his body that that glowed briefly and died at his fingertips. "I don't know."

"You're not even _trying_ anymore."

"It's just—" Jowan shook his head. "I never _asked _to be a mage. I'm not like you. I don't enjoy it. It's never brought me anything but frustration."

"You just haven't found your niche yet." Dorian chewed on his bottom lip, thinking for a moment. "Here. Fire off a few arcane bolts at the practice target—that's always easy. Just to get your frustration out and remind yourself what you're capable of."

Jowan shook his head. "I don't think our templar friend would approve of that."

"For fuck's sake, Jowan." Dorian ran his hand through his hair, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if in some silent appeal to the Maker. "I don't know what to tell you. Do you want me to help you or not?"

"I _do, _but…" Jowan was staring at his feet now. "I thought we'd be doing fire or lightning. I think I'm better at those. I've had more practice."

"All the primal spells are related. If you can make fire do what you want it to, you can use earth spells, too. It's basic theory," Dorian said. "And I've seen you throw flames like nobody's business during lessons. What's the _real _problem here, Jowan?"

Jowan sighed again, looking up reluctantly from the ground to meet Dorian's gaze. He looked unsure for a moment, turning the words over in head head.

"Sibyl—Sibyl was really adamant that we have a _talk _this afternoon, while we practice," he said finally. "And then she told me not to get upset about it, then gave me this weird, pitying smile and said she'd always love me. Did somebody _die? _I don't get it."

Dorian groaned and rolled his eyes. Of _course _Sibyl didn't really care if he helped Jowan practice or not—he should have known, she always thought _she _was the better teacher, in any case—she just wanted to make sure he didn't ignore their little talk, her _revelation _about Jowan's feelings for him. As if he could possibly have _forgotten_.

If Jowan was in love with him, which was a ridiculous notion to say the least, why couldn't she just leave it for them to settle on their own? Now this was just going to be awkward, and it was her fault.

"She, uh… thought I should make something clear to you. About us."

"About us?" Jowan repeated. "Well, that sounds serious."

"It is," Dorian said, frowning. It was also a subject that probably called for delicacy. Jowan had _feelings, _as Sibyl had reminded him. Feelings that were not to be toyed with. _He's not in love with you, _he reminded himself. _Just get it over with. _"You… remember the other day, in the First Enchanter's office? What I said… uh. And did."

Jowan stiffened, turning to look directly at his friend. "How can I forget?"

He hoped, earnestly, that the confused look on Jowans's face was not one worn by people whose hearts were about to be broken.

"I was hoping you would," Dorian went on quickly, his words jumbling together. If by some miracle Sibyl _was_ right, and Maker, if he started _crying—_all of the possibilities for disaster were playing out rapidly in his mind. "Sibyl said you might be getting the wrong idea and that I—I should apologize—"

"You?" Jowan actually started to snicker. "You're apologizing? Should I go get a scribe to come mark the date?"

"No, I'm not—um. Actually, I guess I am. If you'll promise me you're not… you know. Falling for me."

Jowan's snickering stopped abruptly and he stared at Dorian blankly, before bursting into full-on laughter. Dorian pursed his lips, nonplussed by the reaction. At least it was better than crying.

"Falling for _you? _Who do you think I am, one of your apprentice girls from two years below us?" he asked, but his grin faded as he thought the implications over further. "You know, I can't believe you'd really think that. Not _everyone_ is dying to be with you. For one, I'm not even interested in other men. And even if I was, I'm not really that into… people who… "

"…Are whores?"

Jowan shrugged, wide-eyed. "You said it, not me."

Dorian shook his head, his smile genuine.

"Look, it doesn't matter. I cannot tell you how thankful I am to hear you say that," Dorian said. He felt really relaxed for the first time all morning. Sibyl was clearly insane—he shouldn't have doubted himself. "I promise to forget this conversation ever happened, as long as you do."

"What conversation?" Jowan asked, flashing a smile. "I thought we were here to practice earth spells."

"We are. And your rock armor isn't going to get any less dreadful if you don't _practice_," Dorian agreed, unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to move directly onto something less… complicated. "Try again. And throw some _feeling _into it, this time."

Jowan laughed brightly and raised his arms, speaking the incantations with an actual measure of confidence for once. With a grand burst of bright energy that made Dorian wince, translucent brown sheets of slate seemed to form over Jowan's skin. His grin was almost as bright as he held his hands out in front of him, studying the effect.

"Wow, I did it!" Jowan sounded surprised, but pleased, his grin wide. "Want to punch me?"

Dorian hid his smile behind his hand. "I'm not sure if our _templar friend_ would approve."

Jowan laughed, breaking the spell with an easy shake of his shoulders, then immediately casting it again—for a second time, it worked seamlessly. "Well, it's almost time for the mid-afternoon shift to switch. When our friend is relieved of his duties, we can test it out for real."

"Are you _asking _me to hurt you?" Dorian snickered.

"Hey—I'm protected!" Jowan puffed out his chest and pounded his fist against it. It made a satisfyingly heavy, solid sound. "I've got built-in armor now. And it doesn't even conduct electricity! I'm not afraid of you."

Dorian grinned back at him, forming a small ball of glowing energy that crackled with the promise of lightning in front of him in his hands, where the ever-watchful templar would never be able to see it. "Don't be so sure, my friend. I don't know how you practice with _Sibyl, _but I don't play easy. Or fair."

* * *

Dorian found it to be just to his luck that when the mid-afternoon shift finally did switch, the templar who came to relieve their hawk-eyed overseer was none other than Cullen.

Jowan didn't seem to notice at first, too busy and pleased with himself as he focused on working out the weaknesses that remained in his spellcasting. Sometimes, he was too hasty, and the armor didn't fully set, or would remain weak or under-formed in some places. Other times, he got too over-enthusiastic: once so much so that he accidentally encased himself in magical stone, and Dorian had laughed for a good thirty seconds while he struggled to release himself from the spell.

"You could have _helped _me," Jowan said, brushing the last remnants of the stone from one of his shoulder blades.

Dorian was still doubled-over in his chair. "Sorry. You look too funny with bits of rock sticking out of your chest and your hair all stiff. I couldn't contain myself."

"Well, at least I'm actually finally getting the hang of it," Jowan said. He held his hands out in front of him, stretching his fingers out, as if they were still stiff from their rocky prison. "But I'm exhausted and getting hungry—are you ready for a break yet?"

"A break sounds great…" Dorian finally straightened, his laughter fading as he glanced over his shoulder to the exit where Cullen was still stationed, stoic and unmoving as always. "How about you go to the Great Hall and bring us something back from the kitchen?"

"You're not going to come with me?"

Dorian shrugged. "I'd rather not. Standing and walking… my head is still a little woozy from last night, you know?"

Jowan followed Dorian's gaze to where the templar was standing, his lips tight, but he nodded and made his way towards the door. Dorian waited no more than fifteen seconds, seated quietly with his hands on his thighs, before he stood and glided over to where Cullen stood guard.

He stopped at the templar's side, bracing one hand against the wall. Cullen looked down at him, something like either fear or distrust in his expression, and Dorian did his best not to look smug.

This was his moment, and he couldn't have asked for a better one. It was just himself and Cullen, alone in the practice area of the classrooms—nobody else in earshot to bear witness to what he was about to do. A little bit of his famous sweet-talking—nothing one solid, _heartfelt_ conversation couldn't take care of—and soon enough, all of his problems with Cullen would be as good as solved.

Cullen wasn't _nearly _as pleased as Dorian was with the situation. "What do _you _want?"

"Just a moment alone. Nothing terrible."

_ "_Go away," the templar said coldly. "You may be Sibyl's friend, but I know what you are and what everyone says you want from templars. I don't wish to speak with you."

"Oh—you think I'm here to seduce you?" Dorian asked with a soft chuckle, running his fingers lazily over the spine of a book. "Understandable. But let me tell you a little secret… I prefer blonds."

"Excuse me?" Cullen stammered.

"Blonds. I like them. You're not one."

"I—"

"…have no idea what to say, I know," Dorian finished, unable to keep a shadow of his predatory grin from his face. "You see, I'm not interested in you. Sorry to disappoint. I have my hands full already. But… I know someone who _is._"

"I said to _go away,_ mage," Cullen said again through tightly clenched teeth. "I know all about your schemes, and I want no part of them."

"I bet she tells you a lot about me," Dorian started slowly, smirking. "Doesn't she?"

"That… is none of your concern."

"So she _does!_" he said, his voice breathy. "I'm delighted to hear it. So much, that I'd like to share with you a secret. Strictly confidential information—"

"I don't _care,_" Cullen said sharply. "I don't want to know your secrets!"

Dorian drew back, his energy halved, as if sobered by Cullen's reaction. But he continued on in any case, his tone conversational.

"I don't like you much," the elf stated. Cullen could do little but purse his lips and glare. "That can't come as a surprise, though it's nothing personal. I'm not a fan of anyone who keeps me locked up. But we have something in common, you and I. And that's my secret."

Cullen looked as if he couldn't decide whether he should glare further, or roll his eyes. But Dorian was looking away from him now, his gaze cast off to a far corner. His palm rested absently against the books on the shelf, his attention gone. So Cullen settled on cold disagreement. "We're nothing alike, mage."

"Sibyl," he murmured, glancing only quickly up at Cullen before looking away again. "_Sibyl, _I do like. And I know you feel the same way."

"But you don't love her," Cullen said, with some indignation. "I…"

"Yes, yes, your love is pure, and I'm such a dirty slut and so morally reprehensible, it's just _awful,_" Dorian went on, dismissively, almost bitter. He straightened, looking to the templar again, who didn't hesitate to meet his gaze. "How unfair is it that she spends more of her time with me than you? See, I'm not _entirely_ awful. I know how frustrated she gets with me, and I—I don't like it. I want her to be happy. I know that… you make her happy."

The elf was impossible to read. He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Cullen expectantly.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the girl I love loves _you_, and I want you to give her what I can't," Dorian said. The word 'love' felt like a foreign poison on his lips, but he kept his face sincere, and Cullen suspected nothing. "I'm trying to be selfless, here. I came here to tell you that Sibyl is yours."

"I'm a templar. I can't—I would _never_—"

"I'm not trying to tell you to rip her robes off in the Great Hall and fuck her senseless in front of the whole Tower—though I would never discourage it," he sighed, and held back a snicker at the blush that rose in Cullen's cheeks at the suggestion. He guessed it wouldn't be too much of an assumption to say this wasn't the first time the thought had ever crossed Cullen's mind. All the better, then. "But you can make her happy, give her the love and affection she deserves. And she deserves much better than me. Would the _Maker _really object to a love like that? Or is it just your Chantry? There _are_ templars who take wives, or so I've heard."

"Not mages," Cullen said. The words came out in a breathy whisper, tinged with the sadness that came with an idea one has agonized over and longed for to no avail.

"The _Chantry's_ rule, not the Maker's," Dorian insisted. "Mages are people, too, you know. We feel the same things you do. Well—Sibyl does. She deserves someone who can return those feelings."

Cullen hesitantly looked to Dorian, fully, his expression doe-eyed and hopeful.

"So you are certain she… loves me, too?"

"Positive," Dorian said with conviction, his gaze steadily locked with Cullen's. He found it almost disappointing how easy it was to lie to him. Drass, at least, would never accept a word he said without a healthy dose of skepticism. This was just… _too _easy. He could lay it on as thickly as he liked, and poor, dull Cullen would never suspect a thing. It almost took the fun out of it entirely. "You're all she talks about. She says she loves you even though she knows you would never betray the Chantry by being with a mage like her, even though it breaks her heart. She hates that she's causing you to falter in your beliefs and responsibilities as a templar. But I think it's bullshit, and I'm telling you, Cullen—you're hurting her. _Destroying_ her."

Cullen's eyes widened slightly at the thought, and Dorian knew he was close to clinching this deal. He had found Cullen's weak point, not that it was all that well-hidden, and now all he had to do was thrust, stab, and _twist—_if he could be made to think it would end Sibyl's pain, Cullen could be convinced to do anything…

Including making a move on her. Confessing his love. Kissing her. Whatever action Cullen would take—it didn't really matter—Dorian was sure that Sibyl, wit her her great affection for _rules, _would not have any of it. And that would quickly spell the end of the ill-fated liaison between the star-pupil mage and the naïve little templar who loved her, once and for all. Perfection.

"I would never hurt her," Cullen murmured. Dorian's lips curled into a smile.

"But you _are_. For as long as you deny the connection between you, you are destroying a part of her," he said, his heartbeat rising in expectation. So _close._

"Then I must…"

Dorian nodded, encouraging him. He could almost _taste_ success.

"…I must leave her," Cullen finished, firmly, nodding to himself. Dorian's eyes fell closed to hide his exasperation. "She must find a way to get over me, if being with me causes her such pain… you can help her with that, can't you? If you love her?"

Dorian was about as taken aback as if Cullen had slapped him across the face. For a moment, he was actually unable to respond, and instead sighed in frustration as he tried to regain his bearings and figure out how to salvage the conversation. "No! Didn't you hear me? She's _yours._ Be a man and _tell _her! Take her in your arms. Sweep her away. Show her you love her. She deserves to know she is loved in return, don't you think?"

Was he _daft? _Who heard that the object of their desire was smitten and decided to _leave her?_

"I—yes," Cullen finally admitted, though it sounded more resigned than anything else. "But she also deserves someone who can love her openly, without shame. That's not something either of us can provide for her, is it?"

"No. _No!_" It was depressing how often that unfailing templar _nobility_ was getting in the way of his plans, of late. It was a struggle just to keep the vexation from creeping into his expression. "That doesn't even make sense! You love her! You're just going to walk away?"

"It's the right thing to do," Cullen said gravely, and the stupid, self-flagellating expression of pain made Dorian want to summon his lightning just to shock it off of his face. "I'll make that sacrifice for her. I would do _anything_ for her."

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was making his head hurt—the extensive possibility for stupidity in the name of _self-sacrifice _always seemed to blindside him. It just didn't make any damn _sense. _This called for some fast re-thinking of his plan of action: so he couldn't get Cullen to make a move on Sibyl_. _A shame, because the plan was more airtight that way. If he left it to Cullen to break up with her on his own, she might manage to wheedle out from him what (or _who_) was really behind his change in feelings. But maybe it wasn't _entirely_ a lost cause. If he could just make sure Cullen would keep his mouth shut about this conversation, perhaps there was still hope.

Great, convincing Cullen to _lie_. That was sure to be as easy as a leisurely walk around the grounds, wasn't it? But he still had to _try. _Not trying meant condemning himself to spending the next Maker only knew how many years laying witness to the slow, excruciating progression of their _'friendship.'_

Just the thought of it made his skin crawl.

"Then you must act quickly," he said finally. "Decisively. Don't let yourself get caught up in explanations or compromises. You'll only deepen her pain—I'll be there for her, once you're gone. But you must leave, cleanly. Don't allow her to question it, or you might be tempted to change your mind. And it must be _soon._"

"You're right." It was hard not to smile at the sound of those words—it must have brought Cullen great pain to admit them. His expression had grown tight with uneasy resolve. He had that look of great concentration, of a templar steeling himself for duty. Dorian had always mused that it made them look _constipated, _but hopefully today it was working in his favor. "I'll speak to her tonight. Our relationship has gone too far already. Andraste forgive me."

"Yes, may she deliver us all." Dorian's grin flashed triumphant, and Cullen shot him a withering glare.

"Don't you have a friend to be tutoring, mage?"

Cullen's anger was a thin veil for his misery. He had swallowed the story of Sibyl's heartsick love so cleanly, so completely, and his resolve was genuine. That Dorian couldn't fathom _why _Cullen would chose to interpret this information as a reason to leave her didn't matter. As long as it worked in his favor, he wouldn't bother to question it.

He felt unusually light on his feet, nearly prancing back to the practice area and falling into his chair. His head still throbbed, just slightly, from his hangover, although his anticipation largely overshadowed the pain. Jowan still had not returned from the kitchens.

None of it mattered. All he had to do was wait.


	8. What Pride Wrought, part 5

**VIII. Pride, pt 5**

Nerves.

Cullen had been trained to face down the most horrifying of evils without batting an eye. To hone his willpower into energy that could thwart the most powerful of spellcasters. He had even been _good _in his studies. And yet, he was nervous, standing here, waiting for none other than—a mage.

He was off duty, off the night shift this month, and he wasn't even wearing his armor as he waited. He picked at the skin around his fingernails, studying them closely, between glances down the dark, yawning stone hallway. She would be here any moment now.

This was their meeting spot. It wasn't normal for a mage and a templar to have long conversations out in the open, so they had taken to meeting in quieter locations. Only at times when he was off duty, and she done with her studies. Only to talk. Sometimes, he would take her hand in his if their conversation turned serious, or she would touch his shoulder as they laughed and joked—but that was all. Never _anything _untoward.

Of course he had _dreamed, _literally and during the idle hours of his long watches, of just leaning in, feeling her soft red hair in his hands, and kissing her. Just the thought filled him with just as many nerves, like little butterflies fluttering inside of him, as he had now—waiting to do the opposite.

He should have known he wasn't the only one falling in love.

Templars were used to the idea that their existence would be solitary, removed, often so much so that they would remain unmarried their entire lives. He had known this for as long as he had been in training—that is, most of his life. He didn't mind the pain of knowing his love could never be returned… he was used to it. It was enough just to have her company.

But Sibyl—she had other options. She was beautiful, well liked, and loyal. She had a real chance to find someone, another mage, anyone, who could really love her, openly, in a way he never could. He didn't want her to give that up for him.

Templars were taught sacrifice. It had been drummed into him for years.

So he waited, in their usual spot, for what would be the last time.

* * *

Sibyl found him in the same place she always did: an out of the way sunroom with a beautiful view of the stars out the window on nights such as this one. He was waiting, dressed down in his cotton breeches and tunic, waiting for her.

She couldn't help her smile.

"How was your day?" she asked, sitting down on a stone bench under the window. She frowned when he remained standing, all uncertainty and confusion. He looked like a little boy heading to the Chantry to confess his wrongdoings. "Is something wrong?"

She patted the open space next to her. He sighed and averted his gaze.

"Sibyl… we need to talk."

"That's what I'm here to do," Sibyl agreed. "Tell me everything."

"I… I think perhaps this—this, ah, friendship between us…" He looked pained, and her heart squeezed in her chest. "Perhaps it isn't the best for you."

She took a deep breath and drew back. "I don't understand."

"I think we should stop meeting like this. You should focus on your other friendships with the other mages," Cullen said softly.

She shook her head, dazed. It was as if he had begun spouting in ancient Tevinter.

"But—Cullen, this doesn't make any sense. Why would you think such a thing? Has someone… accused you of anything? We're not doing anything wrong!" Sibyl stood quickly and moved towards him. He stiffened as she drew near, feeling her heat.

"No. Nothing of the sort. But I—I love you, Sibyl," Cullen said, mustering the courage to look at her as he said it. Her expression softened, she smiled. "But we both know it's useless. You're wasting your time on me."

"Cullen, don't be ridiculous—"

"No, Sibyl, _this _is ridiculous. Ridiculous of me to entertain for so long. I want you to be happy, and I'm only hurting you by staying so close. We have to get over this, _us, _whatever it is. The Maker forbids us—"

"No, you're wrong," Sibyl interrupted, reaching out and taking his face in her hands. He flinched but did not move away. "You're _hurting_ me, if you go."

"I'm so sorry I let it come to this. But we were fools to think it would end well."

Sibyl shook her head. "I don't believe that. I don't believe we have to be unhappy forever, because you're a templar. Because I'm a mage. Would the Maker want that?"

Cullen only continued staring into her eyes, sad, unmoving. She bit her lip, hard. She should have known—honestly, probably _did_know—that it would come to this at some point. He was right about that. As time has passed and their friendship grew deeper and deeper, they both knew it had crossed over into something else. Into something… forbidden, at least by the Chantry. But she was Irving's best student, and Cullen one of Greagoir's most promising soldiers. They had both lived their entire lives by the Chantry's book. They were both good people.

She couldn't believe the Maker would let them find each other, _love _each other, if He didn't approve of those feelings. And no one would tell her otherwise.

"We _can _be together, Cullen. We _are_ together already, aren't we? It would be easy. No one would have to know."

Cullen didn't seem to understand. His eyes were so sad—she saw so much loneliness in him, so much innocence and goodness. That was one thing she knew for certain: Cullen was _good, _innately, in a way that almost made her ashamed of herself. She worked so hard for her goodness, to do what was right, what was expected of her. For Cullen, it was just what he _was._

"I love you, too, Cullen," she said finally, leaning into him, her eyes falling closed.

She kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. For a moment, he didn't respond—shocked, she guessed, but with her lead, he began to give in, to get a feel for the rhythm of it. She ran her fingers through his hair and his hands settled comfortably around her waist, pulling her in close, their bodies pressed together.

It felt good. It felt so _right._

And she was so wrapped up in it—in him, his lips, his scent, everything about him—that for a moment, she lost sight of the rest of the world. She wanted to forget everything outside of just them two and what they shared: forget the Circle, forget the templars, forget her Harrowing and her worries and everyone else, even her friends.

"Are you in there?"

The voice was muffled, unclear, and she tuned it out. No one came to this out of the way sitting room at this hour—perhaps to pass down the hall, but never come in. It was their spot, a place where they could be alone. There was no reason to worry, so she didn't.

When she heard the creak of the door hinges, the clang of armored boots entering the room, it was already too late.

"Cullen—!"

And then the shouting started.

* * *

She sat in the First Enchanter's office, alone, except for Irving—looking so disappointed, so gravely upset—and the Knight-Commander, livid.

Cullen was waiting in the Knight-Commander's office, she supposed. They would deal with him next. The look on his face as they'd been caught was burned into her memory. Nothing but… apologies.

She swallowed and stared at her knees.

"Maker, Sibyl," Irving began. "I don't believe it."

The Knight-Commander stepped towards her, his expression more severe. "Nor can I. But at least we have answers, now. All those rumors about apprentices seducing templars have been plaguing me for _weeks—_"

"Sibyl, how did it come to this?" Irving continued. "This isn't like you. If you know anything, I beg you to tell us what's going on."

She looked up, meeting her teacher's eyes, and took a deep breath.

"It was all me."

_They must have been about eleven years old at the time. Twelve, at most. She still remembered it so vividly._

_ "I'm so sorry, Dorian," Sibyl had begun, sitting next to Jowan across the classroom table from their friend. They were meant to be studying the incantations for a few simple spells, but this was the first time they'd seen him since early that morning at breakfast, when a very angry enchanter had yanked him out of the Great Hall practically by the ear. Sibyl and Jowan had sat and watched in ashamed horror as she accused him of sneaking into the templar quarters supply area a few nights previously and knocking over a very expensive suit of Knight-Commander plate, leaving it scuffed and damaged._

_ For once, it hadn't been his fault. It might have been Dorian's idea to sneak into the templar quarters, just to see what was up there—but it had been Sibyl who had opened the door to the supply rooms, and Jowan who had pushed her into the giant suit of armor while arguing._

_ But of course, no one suspected _them. _It was Dorian who was always trying to come up with pranks to play on the templars, and Dorian who was blamed for this latest small catastrophe._

She sat in silence.

"Come, Sibyl," he said reasonably. "Everyone here knows that this doesn't make sense. Just tell us the truth, and I'm sure the Knight-Commander will be forgiving."

"It was me," Sibyl said repeated, softly, but with conviction. "I don't know about any other rumors than mine."

The Knight-Commander slammed his fist on the table and turned away in frustration. Behind him, Irving sighed deeply.

"I've been flirting with Cullen for months, and spreading rumors about us that I wanted to be true," she went on, her voice low and mechanical. "That's all I know."

Her passive expression was infuriating. Both the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander were staring at her in equal disbelief. This was Sibyl Amell sitting before them, after all—the brightest student, the most promising mage the Circle had seen in years.

She had never gotten in any trouble that Dorian Surana hadn't facilitated, and everyone in the First Enchanter's small office knew it.

_She had thought for sure that he would tell the enchanter who had _really_ damaged the armor, but instead it seemed their friend had quietly accepted full responsibility and the consequent punishment._

_"I can't believe she's going to make you help the guardsmen polish their armor _by hand,_" Jowan said in sympathetic indignation. "That's cruel! I thought she'd just give you lines!"_

_ Dorian shrugged. "It won't be so bad. Templar Bran hates me. He won't actually let me touch any of their armor for a second. I'll probably just have to hold the wax barrel or something."_

_Sibyl looked appalled._

"_No, this isn't right. I'm going to tell Enchanter Deidre the truth," she said, hands on her hips, with a severe look to Jowan. The boy sitting at her side stared glumly down at his hands, but nodded in dejected agreement. "We have to take responsibility for our actions."_

_ "Don't bother," Dorian responded with a brave grin. "You and Jowan have better things to do than polish armor. I'm used to being punished anyhow."_

"Stop protecting him!" the Knight-Commander finally yelled. "We know _all_ of the rumors just as well as you do. Just give us his name, tell us it's true, and Maker—I'll let you off completely!"

"There are always rumors about him," she said with a tiny, ironic smile, refusing even then to speak the name she knew he so desperately wanted to hear_. _"I heard one that he was even having relations with _you, _Knight-Commander. Unless you'd like me to confirm _that _for the whole Tower to hear? I told you, I am the only one behaving inappropriately with templars. You know how he is. I think it just made him jealous, so he made up a few stories. He _likes_ to rile up templars."

She let out a bitter laugh, almost involuntarily. "I guess it worked."

"Irving, I am sick of the mockery these apprentices are making of the order," the Knight-Commander said, turning to him hotly. "If she refuses to stop blatantly lying to our faces—"

"Forgive me, Knight-Commander," she interrupted evenly, and he turned back to her. She met his angry gaze with a deep calmness that surprised even her. As she spoke the words, for a moment, she almost believed them herself: "But I do not lie."

Usually, that was the truth. But sometimes it came so _naturally._ Dorian was right; she was just as talented a liar as he—she just had different methods.

"_That doesn't make it _fair,_" Sibyl argued. "Jowan and I knocked over the suit of armor. It's not right for you to be blamed for something that was our fault."_

"_It's not about being fair," Dorian told her sensibly. "It's just practical. It's not like I won't get punished for being out of bed, anyway. If you tell, you'll just have to be in trouble _with _me. That's stupid. Don't say anything."_

"_He has a point, Sib," Jowan said. "If we tell, then it's just all three of us waxing armor all afternoon."_

_Sibyl frowned at Jowan. "It still doesn't seem right."_

_Dorian raised a finger and grinned brightly, struck by an idea._

"_It's like this," he said cheerfully. "The templars are like the Tevinter Imperium. I'm Shartan, and I'm used to being punished and told what to do all the time, because I'm a slave. But _you're _Andraste. Everyone thinks you're perfect and looks up to you. You can't get in trouble."_

"_Andraste wouldn't let Shartan take the blame for her mistakes," Sibyl said. Dorian waved a hand dismissively._

"_She's not. We're friends, and we can't go ratting each other out," he explained. "Someday, I'll get myself in terrible trouble and then I'll know I can trust you to protect me. Andraste and Shartan couldn't have taken down the Imperium if they didn't stick up for each other."_

_ "Andraste also got betrayed and burned at the stake. It's not really the best metaphor," Jowan pointed out. "Don't you ever pay any attention when the Revered Mother speaks?"_

_ Dorian's grin was wider, now. "No."_

Irving let out another deep sigh. "She _has_ been completely forthright with us, Greagoir," he said. "Sibyl, you have always shown the highest integrity and honesty to us before. However grave your recent missteps have been, if you say the other rumors are not true, I believe it."

Greagoir let out a bitter laugh. "You, too, then? So be it. Apprentice Amell, you are hereby confined to the lowest levels of the Tower—the dormitories, libraries, and Great Hall. All of your privileges, including grounds privileges, have been revoked until further notice. I expect to see you in the chapel for both morning and evening services until the Reverend Mother decides you have been properly penitent. And if I hear that you have so much as _breathed _in the vicinity of Templar Cullen again, the consequences will be far more severe."

She glanced down at her hands and nodded. "Yes, Knight-Commander."

"In addition, your current Harrowing date has officially been cancelled," he added. "In fact, it has been postponed indefinitely."

Her mouth fell open, words of protest bubbling up in her throat. But the Knight-Commander continued to glare at her severely across the table, and when she glanced to the First Enchanter she found nothing more than resigned sympathy there. She thought better of any further insubordination. Recanting her story and turning Dorian in now was out of the question. It was a matter of _practicality, _after all. "I understand, Knight-Commander."

"Then get out of my sight."

* * *

**End of "What Pride Wrought" next time... nothing gets better. I really will finish this one day! Thanks to everyone who continues to read & review, you're the best!**


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